


Love, Sex, and The Holmes Brothers

by S_G_M



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Frottage, Love, M/M, Murder, Oral Sex, Parent!lock, Sex Swing, Smut, Surrogacy, broody!John, jacuzzi sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-05
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-22 12:06:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 57,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/913023
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/S_G_M/pseuds/S_G_M
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock have been together for a few years, and they decide that they would like to try and have a baby through a surrogate.</p><p>Meanwhile, Greg and Mycroft's relationship gets serious.</p><p>But, when a string of strange murders crops up, things begin to get deadly serious for everyone.<br/> </p><p>Plenty of porn to go with the plot.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> If there is something that seems out of place, or you notice a mistake, feel free to let me know.
> 
> *Friendly criticism is always welcomed!*
> 
> Lastly, THANK-YOU for choosing to read my story! You are AWESOME and I appreciate all of my fantastically wonderful readers. (◕‿◕✿)

It had been a long day at the medical office, and John was looking forward to getting home to Sherlock as he headed to Baker Street.

Between his shifts and the recent case that Sherlock had solved two days previously, there hadn't been much time to simply enjoy one another's company.

As John meandered down the walkway, he allowed his mind to wander wherever it would, just letting go of all the little things that had been annoying him throughout the day. He breathed in deeply, as he passed a blooming rose bush.

He had been a touch irritable for the past few days, although he wasn't entirely certain as to why. Sherlock had been understanding, and gave him the space that he needed.

John was feeling better today, and the stroll home seemed to be doing him good. The warm sunshine that played on his skin, the happy people that were out and about, the scent of fresh bread from a nearby bakery… Just simple things, really, but as John focused on them, it lifted his spirits a bit more.

It wasn't too long before he reached the flat, and after letting himself in, he set about making a cup of tea.

As he put the kettle on to boil, Sherlock stealthily made his way to the table and sat down.

He looked on as John stared out the window, lost in thought. Sherlock pondered as to whether this was how he appeared to others, when he himself was ruminating deeply.

 

A few minutes later, the kettle began to whistle, and John was jolted back to reality.

He jumped upon noticing Sherlock just sitting there, swearing as his nerves pinged.

“Fuck, Sherlock! Must you always sneak around like that?” He asked edgily, as he poured the boiling water into his favourite mug.

“Sorry, John…” Sherlock apologised, walking over and putting his long arms around the smaller man's waist.

Sherlock wanted very much to have John back to his usual self. He had done some rather profound thinking, and felt that perhaps the reason behind John's moodiness was because he was deficient in something that he needed.

In fact, Sherlock felt quite confident that he knew precisely what it was that had been causing John to be so cranky.

Sherlock gave John a squeeze, before encouraging John to sit down and allow him to fix the cup of tea for him.

As Sherlock added the scant teaspoon of sugar and a few drops of vanilla that John customarily included in his tea, he stirred the contents of the mug and set it on the patterned coaster in front of John.

 

“Thanks.” John said, looking a little weary.

Sherlock pressed his soft rosy lips into a thin line as he gazed at John, who raised an eyebrow as he tasted his tea.

“What?” He asked.

“You've been moderately cantankerous for the past while; what is it that's been bothering you?” Sherlock asked carefully.

John blinked. “Yes, I suppose that I have been a bit grumpy…” He started. “I don't really know why.” John frowned, hoping that Sherlock didn't plan on discussing the subject much further.

Sherlock leaned back against the wooden chair. “Oh, but I think that you do, John.” He replied gently.

John refrained from rolling his eyes, but only just. “Really?” He asked, his tone a little sharper than before.

“Yes, John, I do.” Sherlock answered him. “Of course, should you want to keep it to yourself, that is your prerogative.” He gave John a meaningful look.

John sighed. He supposed that if he admitted it to himself, that he did know just what it was that had been getting to him.

His boss, Sarah Sawyer, recently married and new mother, had been bringing her infant son into work since coming back from maternity leave. And, having the little one in such close proximity for such an amount of time had begun to unearth certain feelings that John had felt before, but had buried.

After all, wasn't it only women who got broody like this?

John sighed again.

“… I'm not entirely sure that it's something I ought to bring up.” John told Sherlock, then took a sip of tea. “It's rather… Personal. And it could change things between us.” He finished quietly.

Sherlock thought about this for a moment, forming his hands into a steeple against his mouth.

“I am fairly positive as to what the subject could be, John.” Sherlock began. “Considering the way that you've taken to glancing into prams as they pass. And, that when we do the shopping, you frequently look down the aisles that contain goods for infants and young children with quite a specific expression on your face. Among certain other things.”

Sherlock paused for a moment, as John's mouth hung open as though he wanted to protest.

“I'm not wrong, am I?” Sherlock asked him with a shrewd look on his face. His eyes were sparkling as they always did when he knew damn well that he'd figured something out.

John closed his mouth, and looked embarrassed. “Well, no. I can't honestly say that you are.” He answered resignedly.

Sherlock waited patiently for him to go on.

“It's not a big deal, really.” John said with a shrug. “I've just always wanted to have kids. I'm not getting any younger, and it hasn't happened yet.” John looked a bit depressed at this.

 

Sherlock's expression softened.

“Why haven't you mentioned this before?” Sherlock asked gently. “You are aware that you can tell me anything. I'm not going to judge you.”

John smiled. “No, I know that. It's just… It's really personal, that's all.” John told him, staring down at the table. Meeting Sherlock's piercing gaze was a little difficult at the moment.

"I've wanted to have a little sprog ever since I was in my teens.” John gave a small laugh, thinking back to when he'd first started wanting kids.

“I see.” Sherlock said reflectively.

John finished his tea, setting the mug down heavily. He stood up and stretched, arms high above his head.

Sherlock suggested that they go lie down for a while, and John agreed.

As they lay snuggled together, John's back against Sherlock's firm front, they discussed the topic at hand.

John was feeling unexpectedly good, having this off of his chest. He'd wanted to discuss children with Sherlock before, but hadn't the nerve.

Besides, he'd thought that Sherlock would be averse to the idea.

“We could try to locate a surrogate, John.” Sherlock suggested. “I do believe that I would quite enjoy being a father.”

John flipped over to look at Sherlock. He hadn't expected such a thing to come out of Sherlock's mouth.

“There's no need to appear so shocked.” Sherlock said with a half-smile.

“It's just, well, I hadn't thought that you would want kids.” John responded carefully.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I can't recall ever saying or doing anything to put that notion in your head.” He said, wondering what it was that had made John come to such a conclusion.

John realised that Sherlock was right.

Sherlock adjusted the pillow beneath his head, as he looked at John.

“I think that we would make formidable parents.” Sherlock said matter-of-factly. “We have the time, finances, and space to rear a child. And, together, I think that we could bring up an intelligent, well-adjusted one.” He finished with a small nod.

John bit his lip. They had been together for nearly five years now, and he knew that they were more than ready for such talk. And, now that it was happening, he felt strangely exposed somehow.

He'd been supressing this desire for so long, that to have the truth out in the open, it was… Odd.

“Do you really want to have a kid?” John asked, thinking that perhaps Sherlock was saying such things merely for his sake.

Sherlock took a moment before answering in a warm tone. “Yes, John.” He confirmed in a soft tone. “I think that it would be quite pleasant to have a child around.”

 

Meanwhile, DI Greg Lestrade was making his way to one of Mycroft Holmes' substantial estates, this one situated just outside London.

As he drove his silver Chevrolet up to the security gates, he smoothed his hair down.

The guard at the front gate permitted him access without checking his ID. He supposed that they'd been given orders to just let him through by now.

Greg drove up to the garage, and parked. He freshened his breath with a spritz of peppermint oil before exiting the vehicle.

As he walked up to the house, he straightened his jacket and tie, wanting to look his best.

He reached into his pocket for the key that Mycroft had entrusted to him, and unlocked the door.

Greg and Mycroft had been enjoying one another's company for the past few months, and as time went on, things had been growing progressively more serious.

Greg had never considered going out with a bloke before Mycroft, despite his attraction to the same sex, fretting about his image.

And now, he found himself falling for one of the most important men in the country. A rather powerful, extremely clever, and very rich man.

Greg shut the door behind him, bolting it. He glanced around, looking for Mycroft.

He supposed that Mycroft hadn't made it home quite yet. He was a bit early, after all.

Mycroft had encouraged him to make himself at home whenever he visited, and so he went to make himself a snack as he waited.

As he opened the refrigerator, he heard a key slip into the lock, and the door open.

“Hello, Greg.” Mycroft called out to him.

“Hello.” Greg replied from the kitchen, closing the refrigerator after taking a bottle of water.

He poured it’s contents into a glass, adding a few ice cubes.

Mycroft met him in the dining room, sitting down at the oak table with the white silk tablecloth.

“And how was your day?” He inquired of Greg, who sat down across from him.

“Typical.” Lestrade responded with a shrug. “Although, Anderson was being more of a div than usual.”

Mycroft watched him as an idea popped into his head. “I can have him removed, should you like.” Mycroft offered seriously. “You would never have to deal with him again.”

Greg blinked, not certain how to respond to that. “…Uhm…” Greg mumbled, taking a swallow of water from the glass tumbler in front of him.

Mycroft smiled. “You don't have to answer right now, but do think on it.” He said. “You do have enough aggravation in your life without that man adding even more.”

Greg nodded slowly.

He recalled how a criminal by the name of Jimmy Dale had made multiple vicious death threats to him after he’d arrested the man's brother for manslaughter had mysteriously vanished.

Greg had a sneaking suspicion that Mycroft had been behind the disappearance, however he knew better than to ask about it.

Mycroft Holmes was fiercely protective of those very rare people who became part of his inner circle, and Greg was entirely aware of the fact.

After a bit more talk, Greg excused himself to retrieve something that he’d left in the car.

Mycroft took this opportunity to fire up the large Jacuzzi, adding some rose water for some scent, then lighting a dozen or so candles.

The Jacuzzi room was certainly something to behold.

Three of the four walls were mirrored, while the fourth was merely a thick pane of glass that looked out onto the grounds, and the ceiling was a depiction of Van Gogh's ‘Starry Night'.

The tub and the floor consisted of a lovely blue marble, with the odd fleck of gold for detail.

Mycroft closed the massive sapphire coloured curtain, before exiting the room.

He wandered into the den, where Greg sat on the sofa, waiting for him.

Mycroft sauntered over, leaning forwards to press his silky lips to Greg's.

He gently pulled the man up, bringing Greg to his feet.

Greg followed him into the Jacuzzi room, knowing what sorts of delights awaited him there.

 

“So, I guess that's it then.” John said, feeling a foreign sort of joy wash over him as he lay in Sherlock's arms.

“Yes.” Sherlock said, trailing his fingers along John’s wrist absentmindedly. “Now all we need is to find a womb to rent.”

John stifled a laugh. “We probably should use different terminology than that, but in a nutshell, you are right.”

Sherlock was quiet for a moment. “That Sawyer woman that hired you is evidently fertile…” He began.

John's eyes widened. “No, Sherlock, I'm not going to ask my boss to have our baby!” John said uneasily. “That's not happening.”

Sherlock frowned slightly. “It was only a passing thought… Although, she's not exactly the brightest creature, and we're going to require someone clever.” He said musingly.

John sighed. He knew that it wouldn't be easy to find a woman to suit their needs, especially with Sherlock's high standards.

John's stomach rumbled noisily. It was nearing 7:30 pm and they'd not had dinner yet.

Sherlock sat up. “Put your shoes on.” He said suddenly.

John crossed his legs. “Why?” He asked, stretching out over the freed up space on the bed.

“Because, I'm taking you out to dinner.” He answered.

John knew that Sherlock would very likely be taking them to ‘their place', to Angelo's.

John stood up. “I'm not going to argue with that. I don't feel much like cooking tonight.” He replied, leaving the room to slip on his shoes.

Sherlock already had his on, and followed John to the door.

They exited 221 B, and made their way to Angelo's.

 

Greg couldn't help but stare, as Mycroft divested himself of his clothing and entered the tub with poise, joining him in the roiling water.

He leaned in close, kissing Greg deeply, tasting him.

Mycroft's left hand dipped below the water to gently tease at Greg's 7 ¼ inch length, his soft hands moving expertly. Greg's breath quickened at the touch.

Mycroft's mouth began to travel down Greg's neck, occasionally nipping at the sensitive skin.

Greg shivered, as he felt Mycroft's index finger run leisurely over the head of his cock, paying close attention to the slit.

“Mmmm…” Greg groaned, bucking his hips unconsciously, craving more.

“Patience.” Mycroft chided gently against his shoulder.

Greg pulled his face back to his own, snaking his tongue into Mycroft's mouth in a passionate kiss.

He could feel Mycroft's rigid erection against his thigh, which turned him on all the more.

Damn it, what was it about Mycroft Holmes that turned him into such a lust-filled sex machine?

He gripped Mycroft's soft behind, squeezing it firmly.

“Lean over the edge.” Mycroft instructed huskily, and Greg obeyed.

He felt Mycroft's adept hands on him, felt it as a finger gradually slid inside his tight hole.

Before long, another finger found it's way inside, slipping in and out of him teasingly.

Greg manoeuvred his hips so that Mycroft's fingers swept against his prostate, but then the fingers were removed.

“Ah, ah, ah!” Mycroft said in an authoritative tone.

Mycroft was enormously dominant sexually, and while he never made his lovers do anything that they didn't want to, he did very much take control.

Greg didn’t object to this. In fact, he preferred it.

Mycroft had been teasing him mercilessly for what seemed like hours, yet it had only been perhaps forty minutes.

“Just fuck me already, will you?” Greg growled in frustration.

Mycroft usually didn't make him beg quite this much.

Mycroft chuckled throatily.

“I suppose that I've made you wait long enough.” He agreed, positioning his unusually large, 10 inch cock at Greg's entrance. He glided in unhurriedly, savouring the tight sensation as he and Greg became one.

He bit back a groan of pleasure, as he began to slowly thrust in and out, his hands on Greg's hips.

“About fucking time.” Greg mumbled, closing his eyes contentedly.

Mycroft ignored this, and quickened his pace.

He pounded Greg mercilessly, Mycroft's fingernails digging into his hips, nearly cutting into Greg's flesh.

Greg felt the familiar heat begin to spread throughout his body, felt his bollocks tighten almost impossibly, as his orgasm began to take over him.

He could hear Mycroft's breath quicken further, could hear slight moans indicating that he was at the brink.

Greg glanced behind him, at Mycroft's face.

Mycroft had never before allowed him to see his face as he reached orgasm, and Greg groaned at the sight.

Mycroft looked so… Incredibly human. A sort of extraordinary vulnerability that Greg found remarkably erotic.

Mycroft didn't notice Greg's stare, as his own eyes were closed, absorbed in the pleasure that was beginning to sweep over him.

Mycroft made a soft little whimper, and it put Greg over the edge.

Pure sexual gratification washed over each of them, as they came together for the first time.

Greg cursed loudly, calling Mycroft's name over and over, practically seeing stars.

Mycroft, on the other hand, was far more composed and dignified. He barely made any noise at all, as he gripped Greg's hips roughly.

He gave a few more erratic plunges into Greg, before he was fully drained.

Panting heavily, he pulled himself out slowly, collapsing next to Greg, who turned around.

Mycroft brought Greg close to him, leaning his head against his chest, holding him there.

He was loath to admit the fact, but he had come to need Greg.

Mycroft had grown to care about this silver fox of a man, and had recently begun to become conscious of his feelings towards Greg.

Greg could hear his lover's heartbeat, and it was a wonderfully soothing sound.

Being cuddled like this was something new.

Mycroft had never been so tender with him, and he found himself rather enjoying it.

He felt perfectly contented, more so than he could recall being in such a very long time.

Greg wasn't sure exactly what he and Mycroft were to one another, but he knew that this was something very special to him.

And even as he hoped that Mycroft felt the same way, he didn't dare to believe that he did.

Mycroft didn't say anything for a while, content to merely hold his lover in his arms.

 

John and Sherlock sat at their usual table, with the traditional candle in the center of it.

As their dinner arrived, John gave Sherlock a bit of a look. “I really do wish you would have something more to eat.” He said in a concerned tone.

Sherlock had only eaten two scones and a peach over the past day and a half, which was fairly standard for him.

He simply didn't eat much generally, and not at all when on a case.

John was trying to slowly change that.

He knew the long and short term effects of depriving the body of food in such a manner, and had long suspected that Sherlock had, in fact, an eating disorder.

Sherlock gave him a blank look in return. “I'm really not that hungry, John.” He replied. “You ought not to be so concerned in regards to my eating habits.”

And with that, he began to consume his small bowl of tomato bisque.

John wanted to say something more on the subject, but knew that he shouldn't push too hard, and let it go for the moment. He tucked into the seared steak in front of him.

As they ate, John drank nearly a full bottle of wine with his meal, and was beginning to become moderately inebriated.

It had been a long day, and though he wasn't much of a drinker, he'd found himself refilling his wine glass a number of times.

“John, I’m certain that you've had enough wine for tonight.” Sherlock said, as John reached to pour himself a sixth portion.

Sherlock filled a spare tumbler with water from the pitcher, and set it in front of John, who promptly ignored it.

They had both finished their meals, and Sherlock paid the bill before they headed out of the restaurant.

Sherlock was about to hail a cab, when John began to walk home.

“John!” Sherlock called after him.

“Come along, Sherlock.” John replied stubbornly

. He wasn't about to get into a cab, and Sherlock wasn't in the mood to argue with him.

Sherlock swiftly caught up to him.

John reached out and seized Sherlock's arse, a dopey grin on his face.

“John.” Sherlock said, not thrilled with such a public display.

“Nobody gives a shit, Sherlock.” John slurred. “No one cares that my hand is on your deliciously muscular tush.”

Sherlock remained patient, as the hand found it's way into his back pocket.

“On the contrary, John. I do.” Sherlock stated, removing John's hand for him.

John looked somewhat disappointed.

Sherlock sighed, and reaching out and holding John’s hand.

Perhaps it was fortunate that they were walking home; no doubt John would have been much bolder with the privacy.

John looked up at him with a smile, which Sherlock found himself returning.

As they reached a stoplight a couple of blocks away from their flat, John said something that made Sherlock's heart skip a beat.

“I wish that I could have your baby…” John confessed, his cheeks ruddy, swaying a little on the spot.

Sherlock, with no idea of what to say, leaned down and planted a kiss on John's lips.

John seemed satisfied with this response, and as the light changed, they crossed the street.

 

After getting dressed in fresh clothes (Mycroft had invited Greg to store a few changes of clothing in a couple of his estates), the lovers lay down on the king sized bed in Mycroft's spacious bedroom.

As they watched the graceful koi swim around in the 90 gallon aquarium that sat in one of the bedroom walls, Mycroft stroked Greg's hair unconsciously.

Greg sighed happily. He wished that he'd met Mycroft years ago, before his failed marriages.

Perhaps his life would have been a more content one in that scenario.

“Greg.” Mycroft began.

“Yeah?” Greg responded in his gruff voice.

“How would you feel about moving in with me?” Mycroft inquired.

Greg thought for a moment. He couldn't see much of a downside, and he would like to see Mycroft more often.

Certainly, they met up three or four times a week, but Greg somehow found himself missing Mycroft in between those times.

“Well, I think I'd like that.” Greg answered with a wide grin.

Mycroft allowed a momentary look of relief to wash over his face.

It hadn't been easy for him to ask such a question.

It had been a very long time since Mycroft had been in a vaguely serious relationship, and the first time he actually found himself legitimately caring for a partner.

Mainly, he'd had arrangements that involved sex with no commitment.

“Good.” Mycroft said, meaning it fully. “You can move in whenever you choose. Of course, I'll understand should you change your mind.”

Greg frowned. “And why would I do that, exactly?” He asked, a touch confused.

Mycroft smiled a little bitterly. “Oh, I know how difficult I can be, my dear.” He responded solemnly. “As you know, I am possessive, jealous, dominant and quite distant at times.”

Greg shrugged. “Yeah, and if I wasn't okay with that, I wouldn't be here now.” He said, obviously unconcerned.

Mycroft gazed at him, his azure blue eyes warmly looking into Greg's cinnamon coloured ones.

“What are we, then?” Greg asked. “Because, I really have no bloody idea.”

Mycroft pondered this briefly.

He was aware that Greg was very much enamoured of him, and that he had been in love with Greg for the past few weeks.

Still, he wanted to hear how Greg felt in his own words.

“Tell me, what are your feelings in regards to me?” Mycroft asked softly, his hand running along Greg's arm.

Greg blushed. “Er, well…” He began awkwardly.

Mycroft gave him an encouraging look. “Go on.” He prompted gently.

Greg sighed. “To be perfectly honest with you, My… I care quite a lot for you.” He admitted. “In fact, I'm pretty sure that I love you.”

This was precisely as Mycroft expected.

“And in return, I am confident that I am in love with you.” Mycroft said, placing a kiss on Greg's cheek.

And in that moment, any hesitance or self-consciousness faded away.

His feelings were not unrequited.

Mycroft wanted Greg just as badly as Greg wanted Mycroft. Learning this fact quite nearly overwhelmed Greg.

“So we're…” Greg started, waiting for Mycroft to finish the sentence.

“Together, yes.” Mycroft confirmed, looking at Greg affectionately.

Greg's heart did a flip of joy.

He hadn't been this happy in so very long.

He had begun to wonder if he'd ever find love, after giving up on it when his last marriage had ended badly.

For years, he'd gone around thinking that nobody would love him, that it had been entirely his fault that the marriages hadn't been successful, despite all of the effort that he'd put into them.

And now, after giving up, he'd somehow been fortunate enough to find someone to love, and to love him in return. In the past, Greg Lestrade had been searching in all of the wrong places.

As he breathed in, he could smell Mycroft.

The scent of his clean skin, along with the warmth from his body was making him grow hard once more.

Mycroft, ever observant, didn't fail to notice this.

He reached down between Greg's legs and cupped the growing appendage.

He slowly massaged Greg to a full erection that strained against the fabric of his trousers, making a sizable tent.

Greg sat up. “I want…” He began a little breathlessly, but then faltered.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. “What is it, my dear?” He murmered softly, pressing his lips to Greg’s neck.

Greg took a breath. “Let me be in charge this time.” He said a little quickly. “Please.” He added for good measure.

Mycroft considered this for a moment.

Perhaps it would be an interesting change of pace. He'd never allowed any of his lovers to take control, with the exception of his first time.

“Yes. All right.” Mycroft agreed easily, to Greg's surprise.

Greg had Mycroft lie down.

He began by kissing Mycroft's neck, softly and sweetly, before moving to his mouth, and then to his chest.

He sucked at a pert, rosy nipple, biting down ever so gently.

Mycroft had become remarkably hard, as Greg peppered his body with kisses and little nibbles.

As Greg turned his attention to the stately manhood in front of his face, he noticed the pre-cum that had dripped down Mycroft's length, gathering at the base.

Greg lapped at the pool of pre-cum, before licking it off of Mycroft's dick.

He heard a small “Oh!” as he mouthed the tip.

This was only the second time since he and Mycroft became lovers that he'd been allowed to use his mouth in such a way.

In the past, Mycroft had given Greg so much pleasure, but had refused to allow Greg to perform such acts on him.

He would generously give, but not receive.

Greg wondered if Mycroft would at last allow him inside, to be able to slip his aching cock into Mycroft’s sweet arse.

Would tonight finally be the night?

Greg took Mycroft's full length into his mouth, and down his throat.

He swallowed twice before coming up for air, then continuing on in that fashion.

Mycroft bit his lip to keep from crying out, closing his eyes tightly as he leaned his head back.

Greg craved those sexy noises that he knew Mycroft was keeping from him, and tonight he would do everything he could to coax them out.

Greg swirled his tongue around the head of Mycroft's length, sucking a little more forcefully.

He released Mycroft's manhood, and began to concentrate on his pendulous bollocks.

Greg tongued them, taking them into his mouth in turn, making Mycroft's brows knit together as his breath quickened further.

Greg's hands began to wander over whatever skin he could reach, sensually playing along Mycroft's body.

Greg began using a hand, as well as his mouth on Mycroft's cock, working him skillfully.

He could hear a light moan escape his lover, which was followed by an ashamed expression on Mycroft's face.

He found such sounds coming from himself to be perfectly mortifying.

Ah, so this is why Mycroft hadn't allowed him to be in the dominant position before.

Because, not only was he unable to control the situation, but he began to lose control of himself as well.

He became defenceless to Greg.

Greg made his way back up to Mycroft's mouth, kissing him gently.

“Are you sure you're comfortable with this?” He asked between fervent kisses.

Mycroft put a hand to his cheek.

“It's about time I granted you the option.” Mycroft responded breathily. “Rest assured, should I be uncomfortable with something, you shall hear about it.”

Greg bit his lip. “Can I… I want to be inside you, if that's all right.” He confessed, feeling nervous.

Mycroft was a bit hesitant at this.

He had never before allowed someone access to his body in such a way, and the notion was a touch unnerving.

Greg looked away. “O-Of course, if that's not cool…” He said quickly, feeling embarrassed for having broached the subject.

Mycroft was quiet for a moment. “Greg, never before have I afforded anyone such a privilege.” He began seriously. “But, for you, I will allow it.”

If it had been anyone else, Greg would have been put off by the choice of words, but he knew that Mycroft was simply being Mycroft.

He didn't mean to come across as pompous or offensive, he was merely being himself.

And Greg wouldn't have had it any other way.

Mycroft reached into the drawer, pulling out a bottle of blueberry flavoured lubricant, passing it to Greg.

“New flavour.” Greg observed, uncapping the container.

“Well, I had wanted the usual bubble gum flavour, but the shoppe was sold out.” Mycroft said a little sulkily.

Greg did his best not to laugh at Mycroft's tone of voice.

He poured an amount of lube into his hand, warming it, before applying it to his rock hard cock, and then to Mycroft's tight entrance.

Making certain that there was a generous amount of lube, he worked a finger in slowly, being very careful.

Mycroft wasn't entirely thrilled with the feeling of a finger in his arse, and lay there, less than impressed.

Soon, Greg was able to add a second finger, and found Mycroft's prostate with a small amount of searching, which elicited a sharp gasp from Mycroft.

His eyes went wide at the jolt of pleasure.

Greg grinned.

He slipped his fingers in and out, making Mycroft positively squirm at the sensation, bucking his hips a few times. Greg had never seen him like this, so needy, and he absolutely loved it.

The lust written all over Mycroft's face was just beautiful.

As, Greg began to suck Mycroft a little, he wrapped a hand around his own cock.

Once Mycroft felt ready, Greg positioned himself against Mycroft's divine pink ring of muscle, and ever so slowly entered him.

Mycroft took a deep breath in, as Greg filled him. It was a peculiarly brilliant feeling, and as he adjusted to Greg’s girth, he closed his eyes.

“Okay?” Greg asked through gritted teeth. Mycroft was so magnificently tight.

Greg had figured that it would be quite the same sensation as being inside a woman, and while the two experiences were alike, they were entirely dissimilar.

“Oh, fuck yeah.” Greg groaned huskily, his voice notably deeper than usual.

Greg began to move, gingerly at first, before hastening his pace.

As he repeatedly sank his full length into Mycroft, he could hear quiet little cries of carnality.

It wasn’t long before he actually had Mycroft moaning loudly as he approached orgasm, gripping the sheets tightly as he cried out. 

“Uh… Uh! Mmmm, oh! Ohhhhhhh…” Mycroft groaned out lowly, as he moved his hips in time with Greg’s thrusts.

Mycroft’s breathing grew ragged, as his orgasm flooded through him violently.

He’d never experienced anything quite like this, and he called out Greg’s name as pleasure coursed through his body in jolting spasms.

Greg came hard moments later, plunging himself in to the hilt, cursing like a sailor, as per usual.

When he was able to move once more, he lay down beside Mycroft, who was more satisfied than ever.

They held each other, basking in the afterglow, and drifted slowly into a deep slumber.

 

Meanwhile, at 221 B, Sherlock helped John into bed. He was complaining about the room spinning, as Sherlock pulled the covers over him.

“You shouldn’t have consumed so much wine.” He said, kissing John’s forehead, as he slipped beneath the blankets.

John moved closer to him, kissing him on the mouth and reaching down to between Sherlock’s legs.

“No, John, not tonight.” Sherlock told him firmly.

He was nowhere near comfortable making love to John while he was intoxicated.

“Come on, Sherlock.” John encouraged lustily.

“You heard me, John, now go to sleep.” Sherlock told him, rolling over.

A disappointed John huffed noisily, then closed his eyes.

He was asleep within ten minutes.

The next day, John awoke with a pounding headache. He was alone in the bed, and he could smell breakfast, which made him nauseous.

Why did he drink so much the night before?

As he made his way to the bathroom to empty his bladder, he could hear Sherlock come into the room.

“Good morning, John.” He called.

“Morning.” John called back groggily.

When he had exited the bathroom, he found Sherlock sitting on the freshly made bed with a breakfast tray for him.

The last thing he wanted to do was to eat anything, but knew that if he didn’t he would end up feeling even worse.

At least he didn’t have to go into work today.

He swallowed the pain relievers that Sherlock had brought along with the breakfast tray, hoping that they would take effect soon.

After eating the eggs and sausage that Sherlock had cooked, he decided to take a short nap.

When he awoke a couple of hours later, his atrocious headache had dissipated, and he was feeling much healthier.

He moseyed into the den, where he found Sherlock reading a very thick book with yellowing pages.

He always thought that Sherlock appeared incredibly sexy when he was reading or playing his violin.

He suspected it was because whenever Sherlock did either of these things, the pleasure he derived from them made it to his face.

Especially whenever Sherlock played his violin.

That was a sight that never failed to take John’s breath completely away.

The reckless abandon with which he played, the delightful cascade of crystal notes that swam through the air, the unadulterated emotion that was conveyed through the music, could be simply staggering.

“Hello, John.” Sherlock greeted him without looking up from the book.

“Hello, Sherlock.” John returned.

Sherlock closed the book after finishing the page, and turned his attention to John.

“Feeling better, I see.” He observed easily.

John nodded.

Sherlock gave him a mischievous look.

“Let’s go out.” He said suddenly, making John wonder what he had in mind.

“And do what?” John asked, crossing his arms.

“You’ll see.” Sherlock said mysteriously, piquing John’s curiosity.

There was nothing planned for the day, and since he was feeling much better, John agreed.

The men got dressed, and headed outside.

John was surprised to find one of Mycroft’s cars waiting for them.

Sherlock had texted his brother, asking to borrow a car for the day, and had his request granted.

They got into the vehicle, and Sherlock started the car.

“So, where are we going, then?” John asked, hoping for some insight.

Sherlock grinned slightly.

“As I already told you, John, you’ll see.” Sherlock repeated. “I won’t say it again.”

John sighed, and turned on the radio.

Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’ began to play, and to Sherlock’s surprise, John began to softly sing along.

Sherlock bit back a sharp retort, and although he despised the tune, he kept that to himself.

After all, John’s mood had improved and he didn’t want to spoil it.

After nearly two hours, they reached a deserted beach outside of London.

Sherlock parked the car near a couple of quite large rocks, and took a bag from off of the back seat.

He carried it closer to the water, and unzipped it, taking out a big blanket for them to lie on.

 

John sat on it, watching as Sherlock removed his shirt.

It was quite a warm day, perfect weather for such an outing.

“This was a good idea.” He told Sherlock, who sat next to him, watching as the waves rolled in lazily.

“Yes, it was.” Sherlock agreed.

John couldn’t help but stare at Sherlock’s chest.

Five years of being in a relationship with Sherlock had not lessened John's desire of him.

He still felt that familiar flutter in his tummy whenever he saw Sherlock naked, felt that rush when they kissed, still wanted Sherlock as much as he ever had.

Sherlock leaned in, kissing him. They were the only ones on the beach, and so they could take full advantage of such privacy.

John kissed him back, weaving his fingers into Sherlock’s soft curls. Sherlock’s hand slid down John’s spine, to his arse.

Sherlock divested John of his shirt, before removing both of their trousers.

Sherlock grinned widely when he noticed the red y-front pants that he’d given John on their last anniversary.

He reached inside them, wrapping his hand around John’s hardening member.

John licked his lips, as Sherlock moved his hand in the rhythm that John tended to favour.

He felt his hand begin to grow sticky with pre-cum, as his hand slid along John’s thick 6 3/4 inch length.

Sherlock felt his 7 1/8 inch smooth cock prepare for action, and as he touched John, he began to palm his own erection to the same pace.

He lay John down, straddling his hips, moving so that their dicks rubbed against one another.

Once they couldn’t take having the fabric between their bodies any longer, they stripped out of the underwear, and Sherlock grabbed the small bottle of lubricant that he’d brought along.

He applied some to John’s sweet arsehole before stroking it onto himself, and then gently entered John, kissing his soft mouth as he did so.

“Mmmm.” John moaned, as Sherlock began to pump in and out of him. “Fuck me hard, Sherlock.” He urged throatily.

Gladly, Sherlock complied, humping him forcefully, making John cry out with the sensation.

“That’s it, right there!” John yelped, as Sherlock angled himself so that he was cleanly rubbing John’s prostate.

“Ahhh, fuck, Sherlock.” He groaned, his prick trapped between their bodies as Sherlock fucked him mercilessly.

Sherlock kissed him roughly, as John came, spurting all over their chests, as he called Sherlock’s name.

When he was done, Sherlock pulled out, and wanked himself to completion onto John’s hips.

After resting for a while, lying close to one another under the sun, they rinsed themselves off in the river.

They spent the entire afternoon that way, making passionate love in the sand.

They watched the sun go down, and the stars come up.

John pointed out various constellations to Sherlock’s annoyance, and ate a late supper under the night sky.

Sherlock lit a small fire, and they roasted marshmallows. Sherlock had remembered John telling him that it had been decades since he’d had a bonfire and roasted marshmallows, and knew that he’d enjoy such a thing.

As they sat by the fire, John remembered some wonderful things that he’d not thought of in such a long time. He shared some of these with Sherlock, who listened intently.

Afterwards, Sherlock put out the fire, and took another blanket from the bag.

They lay down, covered their naked bodies with it, and fell asleep on the beach, listening to the rolling waves.


	2. Chapter 2

A few days later, Greg filled his Chevrolet with the few belongings that he had, taking them over to the estate that Mycroft used most frequently.

“Is this everything?” Mycroft asked, an eyebrow raised.

Greg nodded. “Yeah, that’s it.” He replied, looking at his meager possessions.

There were a few duffel bags, a suitcase, and four small cardboard boxes.

“I had suspected that you had much of your belongings in storage.” Mycroft told him, recalling the first time that he’d visited Greg’s dingy flat.

Greg shrugged. “What can I say? After moving around as often as I have in the past, I tend to keep clutter to a bare minimum.” He stated. It didn’t bother him all that much.

Greg Lestrade was not a man who cared very much for material items.

Mycroft nodded. “Yes, well…” He started. “I’ll have James put your things away for you. Would you prefer to have your own room, or share mine?” He asked, looking into Greg’s eyes unabashedly.

Greg wasn’t sure what sort of answer Mycroft was expecting.

“Er, well, I hadn’t even thought that I’d be having my own room.” Greg confessed. “I had sort of been thinking we’d just be bunking together.”

Mycroft smiled. “Then it’s settled.” He said, silently glad for Greg’s answer.

He rang a bell, signalling James, to snap to. The skinny, ginger haired young man hurried over.

“Yes, Sir?” James asked ever so politely, standing at attention before Mycroft.

“Mr. Lestrade shall be needing his belongings put away in the main bedroom, James.” He said firmly.

James nodded. “Right away, Sir.” He answered, before directly setting about moving Greg’s things.

“Oh, I could do that, really.” Greg said, feeling a little awkward.

Mycroft clasped his hands behind his back. “Nonsense.” He replied. “I do have a hired staff for a reason.”

Greg frowned. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to get used to being waited upon in such ways.

“Come.” Mycroft said. “It’s time for tea.”

And with that, the two men headed into the dining room.

 

“Sherlock!” John called out in exasperation, upon discovering eight human toes soaking in some sort of greenish fluid in the microwave.

Sherlock made his way to the kitchen, joining John in front of the open device.

“Haven’t I asked you countless times to at least warn me about this sort of thing?” John questioned, his tone sharp.

He had been quite hungry, although now he’d rather lost his appetite.

Sherlock maintained a blank expression. “I do recall you saying something along those lines, yes.” He answered. “And I did mention the toes last night.”

John huffed. “Sherlock, I was out all evening with Stamford!” He declared in frustration.

“Well, it’s hardly my fault that you didn’t hear me.” Sherlock stated stubbornly, removing the toes from the microwave and draining them into the sink.

John looked as though he might be ill, turning away from the sight.

“Oh, the stink!” He groaned, as Sherlock set them on the counter, prodding at one with a sharp metal instrument.

Sherlock didn’t say anything, and continued on with whatever it was he was doing, absorbed in thought.

John closed his eyes, hoping that he wouldn't stumble on any more body parts in the flat for a while.

There would be no point in saying anything more to Sherlock at this point, considering he likely wouldn’t hear a damn word anyway.

John wrote Sherlock a brief note, explaining that he was going out to pick up a few things for dinner, and left the flat.

 

He walked to the market at a fair pace, letting off steam. Along the way, he ran across Mrs. Hudson, who had been on her way home from a yard sale.

“Oh, John!” She said excitedly. “Look what I found at Betty’s sale.” Mrs. Hudson reached into a cloth bag that she was carrying and pulled out a long green scarf.

“What do you think? Sherlock’s birthday is coming up, and that scarf he always wears is getting a little ratty.” She looked at John proudly, obviously thrilled with her purchase.

“Quite a find.” John said, looking it over. It really was a nice scarf, and the colour of it would complement Sherlock’s magnificent eyes beautifully.

Mrs. Hudson grinned even more widely. “Oh, and I found something for you, too, John.” She said, putting a hand on his arm. “I wouldn’t forget you, dear.” She added, as though he might have been a touch jealous.

John smiled. Mrs. Hudson really was a lovely woman.

She carefully folded the scarf back up, and put it back in the bag, pulling out a Doctor Who tie.

It was white, with numerous small TARDISes (TARDI?) covering it.

“I know how much you like that doctor show.” She said with a nod, handing it to him.

“And, look at that, you’re not wearing a tie this morning. You can put it right on!” She clapped her hands happily.

John knew that if he didn’t put the tie on, she would be terribly disappointed.

He promptly put it on, which pleased Mrs. Hudson.

“You do like it, I hope.” She said, wondering if she’d picked the right thing for him. There had been a set of dalek salt and pepper shakers, but she didn’t have quite enough money with her for them.

If he wasn’t really keen on the tie, she would simply go back to her flat for enough money to buy the daleks.

John told her that he loved the tie.

He had been a little surprised that she’d remembered that he was a fan of Doctor Who, having only mentioned it in passing once or twice.

“Oh, look at the time!” She said suddenly, glancing at her watch. “I’ll be late to my appointment if I don’t hurry.” She said, before rushing away with a quick good-bye.

John waved to her, and went on his way.

 

Greg and Mycroft sat in the dining room, taking tea and chatting about a number of things.

As Greg took a bite of his cucumber and cream cheese finger sandwich, Mycroft excused himself to take an important phone call.

Greg chewed thoughtfully, thinking about how things were progressing with Mycroft.

Things were moving a bit swiftly, although it felt right to him. Greg sighed.

He was determined to give this relationship everything he had.

Never in his life had he felt quite like this towards anyone. Certainly, he had cared for his previous spouses, nevertheless it was a different sort of caring.

Mycroft meant so much to him, and he was very worried that he would somehow louse things up between them.

Greg shook his head.

He tried not to allow such negativity to flood his thoughts. If things were going to go positively, he needed to maintain positivity in his thinking.

A few minutes later, Mycroft returned.

“I am sorry, Greg, but it has come to my attention that I’m badly needed by one of my clients.” He apologised. “I likely shan’t be back until the evening.”

“Ah, well… That’s all right.” Greg said. “That’ll give me some time to unpack.”

Mycroft finished the last few swallows of his tea. “Except that James will have already completed that task for you.” He pointed out.

Greg gave a small laugh. “That’s right.” He said, wondering what he’d do while waiting for Mycroft to come back.

He didn’t need to go into work today, but perhaps he could swing by the station, just to do a bit of paperwork.

He didn’t like to be idle.

“Well, I’d best be leaving.” Mycroft said, looking into Greg’s eyes, letting his gaze linger for a moment.

He was about to turn and leave, before he decided to move in for a quick kiss.

Greg felt Mycroft's arms envelop him.

As Mycroft pulled away, Greg couldn’t resist leaning forwards and kissing him back.

Mycroft eventually ended the kiss with a longing sigh, wanting nothing more than to continue on, but knowing that he was urgently needed at work and simply didn’t have the luxury of shrugging off the duty.

Mycroft gathered his composure, said good-bye, and left.

Greg leaned back in his chair, and blew out a breath, glancing at Mycroft's splendid arse as he exited the room.

 

As John put away the groceries that he’d picked up at the market, Sherlock decided to assist him.

“Nice tie.” Sherlock told him, fingering it.

“Thanks.” John said. “I ran into Mrs. Hudson. She picked it up at some yard sale.”

He struggled to put a box of dry pasta on an upper shelf in vain.

Sherlock leaned in, pressing himself against John, and taking the box from his hand, putting it on the shelf.

Sherlock lingered there for a moment, before beginning to put away the last of the shopping.

As he came to the last item, he glanced over at John with a slight grin.

“What?” John asked inquisitively, wondering what could be going through his mind.

Sherlock tossed the small bottle of honey into the air, before catching it without looking.

“I think that you need to be sweetened up.” Sherlock said with a very suggestive look.

John chuckled, as Sherlock licked his lips evocatively.

He took a wide step towards John, who took a stride to the left, towards the hallway.

Sherlock took another step closer, and John took two more away from him, a huge grin on his handsome face.

As Sherlock went to move closer, John sprinted down the hall towards the bedroom.

Sherlock easily caught up to him, and tackled his prey, pinning John to the bed.

He still had the honey clutched in his hand.

John laughed, feeling giddy.

Sherlock rolled off of John, sitting cross-legged beside him, enjoying the sight of John being so happy.

He unfastened John‘s belt, unbuttoned his trousers, and reached in to pull John’s hardening cock out.

He leaned in, merely breathing along John’s length, letting his breath play deliciously along the sensitive skin.

It was only moments before John was at a full erection, and Sherlock turned his attention to stripping John of the rest of his clothing.

Sherlock undid the tie, placing it on the nightstand, then removed John’s maroon shirt.

Sherlock kissed John deeply, reaching down to tease John’s throbbing cock.

He broke away, uncapping the honey, squeezing a small amount onto his index finger.

He offered the digit to John, who took it into his mouth, sucking the sweet amber liquid off as Sherlock observed.

Sherlock withdrew his finger, and began to drizzle honey along John’s torso.

He set the bottle down on the bedside table, and began to languidly lap at the trail of sugary goo.

John took a deep breath in, closing his eyes to concentrate on the feeling of Sherlock’s tongue as it trailed along his skin.

His cock was practically aching now, as Sherlock purposely ignored the begging appendage.

After he’d cleansed the honey from John’s body, he gently squeezed the bottle just above the tip of John’s manhood.

The liquid dripped down, trickling all the way along John’s length, gathering at the base. The honey began to ooze onto John’s bollocks, before Sherlock began to hungrily bathe John once more.

 

John groaned loudly, wriggling as Sherlock relentlessly sucked and licked, toiling away at removing every last drop of honey.

Sherlock took his time, savouring John’s moans and sighs, delighting in each squirm.

As he lapped at the last bit of stickiness, John came, ropes of cum arching into the air.

He gasped as ripples of pleasure danced through him, Sherlock watching him intently.

After his orgasm had subsided, he and Sherlock took a shower together, before relaxing on the sofa.

 

“Sherlock, I think I’ve found a potential surrogate.” John said carefully, appreciating that Sherlock might not be pleased with his suggestion.

“Yes, I know.” Sherlock said simply, having discovered this information from John’s behaviour after he’d returned from an outing the previous day.

“Who is it?” He asked curiously. He’d attempted to figure this out, but he hadn’t enough information to go on.

John stalled slightly. “Well… Er…” He said, worried at what Sherlock’s response might be.

Sherlock frowned in annoyance. “Any time, John.” He said petulantly.

John bit his lip before continuing. “Right, well, firstly, she has great genes.” He began. “No family history of cancer or anything like that. And, she’s pretty smart.” John told him.

“A name, John.” Sherlock said with an irritated gesture.

John cleared his throat. “Before I tell you, I want you to know that I really think that she would be a very good choice.” He said slowly. “And, that she’s willing to do this for us.”

“John.” Sherlock said, getting very impatient by now.

John took a deep breath. “It’s… Molly.” He answered at last, feeling rather tense as he waited for Sherlock to respond.

Sherlock frowned. “Molly from St. Bart’s?” He asked, already knowing the answer.

“That’s her.” John replied, pressing his lips into a thin line.

Sherlock was quiet for a short while, retreating into some pretty fervent thoughts on this subject.

“You could have informed me that you had intended to discuss our situation with her.” Sherlock said a little edgily.

John apologised. “I didn’t think that you would mind…” He said quietly.

Sherlock wasn’t sure whether he minded or not, but would have appreciated being consulted on the matter.

After a few more moments of silence, John worked up the courage to speak.

“What do you think?” He asked cautiously.

Sherlock went into his typical thinking pose.

“I think that Molly would be a logical choice but for one thing.” Sherlock responded pensively.  
“I’m not entirely confident that she would be able to cope with giving up the child.”

John frowned. “Don’t you think we should let her decide that for herself?” He asked. “Molly has been thinking about this for the past week, and wants to help us out. She should have a pretty good idea as to whether or not she could handle this.”

Sherlock sighed. “John, up to 47% of surrogates regret their decision to give up the infant after it is born, even though before the birth, the females felt confident that they would be perfectly fine with the scenario's conclusion beforehand.”

Sherlock’s expression softened. “Molly has displayed deep-seated maternal instincts, and as much as I would like to take advantage of her offer, I simply don’t feel that it would be right to do so.” He explained gently. "I believe that it would be psychologically scarring for her as a result."

John was lost for words. Perhaps Sherlock was right.

“We will find a suitable woman, John. You’ll see.” Sherlock said softly, kissing him on the forehead.

“Yeah…” John said, feeling discouraged.

 

Meanwhile, Mycroft was in the middle of formulating some rather top secret plans on the royal family’s behalf.

It was going fairly well, and he expected that his clients would be pleased with his work.

At this rate, he would be home in time for dinner.

Although, perhaps he would opt for eating Greg instead.

He smirked at that thought for a moment, before turning his attention back to the task at hand.

 

Greg decided to take a dip in the indoor pool. As he floated on his back, staring up at the ceiling, he let his mind go blank.

He felt so completely tranquil.

Soon, he felt himself begin to drift into sleep.

He decided that it would be safer to leave the pool, and lay on one of the lounge chairs on the deck instead.

As Greg leaned back and closed his eyes, listening to the water, he let himself doze.

When he awoke, it was nearly 8:30 pm.

He had slept for three and a half hours. He felt refreshed, as he stood up and stretched.

Greg wondered if Mycroft had arrived home by now, and decided to check and see.

He had learned from James that Mycroft had been home for nearly two hours, and was in the den reading.

Greg felt a little embarrassed.

He wasn’t one to fall asleep during the day like that, and didn’t want Mycroft to think that this was how he often spent his days off.

The last thing he wanted was for Mycroft to think that he was some lazy git.

He did indeed find Mycroft in the den, immersed in Hamlet.

“Good evening, Greg.” He greeted, closing his book and turning his gaze on him.

“Hey.” Greg said, hands in his pockets. “I guess that was kind of rude, me falling asleep, waiting for you to come back.”

Mycroft set the book on the coffee table in front of the sofa. “Not at all.” He responded. “Moving is always tiresome.”

The move hadn’t been difficult at all, not physically.

It had, however, been somewhat stressful for Greg, considering that now the relationship between them was earnestly official.

 

Mycroft let his gaze wander along Greg’s body, not being subtle in the least.

Greg swallowed, anticipating Mycroft’s next move.

Mycroft got up from the couch, making his way over to Greg.

He gave Greg’s arse a playful slap as he walked past, heading to the bedroom.

Greg followed close behind, taking off his top along the way.

As soon as they were in the bedroom, and the door was shut, Mycroft quickly undressed Greg, pushing him down onto the bed, Greg’s feet flat on the floor.

Mycroft knelt down, taking Greg’s cock into his mouth, wasting no time in greedily sucking him.

Just as Greg was about to come, Mycroft stopped, letting Greg’s approaching orgasm ebb slowly away.

“Ohhhh, fuck, My…” Greg groaned through gritted teeth. “Ahhh, don’t stop…”

Mycroft grinned smugly, before repeating the process.

Greg was writhing, craving the release that he was being denied.

“My…” Greg moaned, dragging the name out. He ran his fingers through his damp hair, sweat glistening along his entire body, as Mycroft began to tease him for a third time. “Please…”

As Greg reached the brink once more, Mycroft ceased what he was doing.

This time, he stood up, leaning over to kiss Greg deeply.

Greg could taste himself in Mycroft’s mouth, and he moaned softly, as Mycroft’s tongue danced with his own.

He bucked his hips fervently, his cock bumping against Mycroft’s leg.

Mycroft pulled away, removing his own clothes at last.

He was fully erect, and his pants had been moistened slightly with pre-cum.

Mycroft straddled Greg’s hips, pressing his cock against Greg’s, and wrapping both of his hands around them.

He slowly began to move his hand along both their lengths, Greg thrusting unconsciously, nearly mindless in the pursuit of his orgasm.

Mycroft tightened his grip as he felt his balls tighten.

Greg let out a string of curse words as he ejaculated, cum oozing over Mycroft’s hands, making them both slick with the warm, sticky wetness.

Mycroft closed his eyes, as that delicious sensation exploded within, rocking his entire body with pleasure.

As the aftershocks lessened, he opened his eyes to find Greg watching him contentedly.

He immediately felt embarrassed, and removed his hands from their penises, climbing off.

Without a word, he headed to the bathroom, retrieving a container of warm soapy water and a soft cloth for them to clean up with.

He cleansed Greg himself, before using the cloth on his own body, avoiding eye contact.

“You look perfectly amazing when you come.” Greg breathed, meaning the words completely.

Mycroft cleared his throat, not looking at his lover.

“Really, you are.” Greg insisted.

Mycroft was, for once, at a loss for words.

If it had been anyone else, he would have been much less than pleased to have been witnessed in such a state.

To be seen when he was not in complete control of himself was unthinkable.

And yet, he had allowed Greg to see him in precisely that state.

He wanted to say something, anything, but found himself unable to find suitable words.

Greg, sensing this, leaned in and kissed him gently.

“I love you, Mycroft Holmes.” He said softly, before touching his forehead to Mycroft’s.

“I… love you, too, Greg.” Mycroft said honestly, letting this sentiment show on his face.


	3. Chapter 3

That night, both Holmes brothers and their lovers slept well, as they each adjusted to the new situations that they found themselves in.

 

The next morning, John awoke to find himself nearly being crushed under Sherlock’s weight.

The thin, but heavy, body was practically lying on top of him. Sherlock’s face was mashed into John’s chest, resting in a small puddle of warm drool. John grimaced.

Despite the fact that they shared a large bed, Sherlock only slept in one of three ways.

1.} He would sprawl out after falling asleep, his long limbs flung far across the bed, claiming as much space as was possible. (John often awoke to find something along the lines of Sherlock’s hand resting on his face. Or sometimes, a foot resting on his chest.)

2.} Sherlock would flail about restlessly, typically ending up falling out of bed and onto the floor with a heavy thump. At which point, a half-awake, grumbling Sherlock would climb his way back into bed.

3.} Sherlock would hold John close. And, roughly a third of that time, in Sherlock’s slumber, he would gradually make his way even closer to John. It wasn’t altogether uncommon for John to wake up with breathing difficulties from the weight of Sherlock’s body, which had rolled partly on top of him.

As graceful as Sherlock was while conscious, he was as equally graceless in sleep.

John attempted to wriggle free, but Sherlock, in his sleep, reached out and held onto John’s shoulder.

“Sherlock…” John called softly, trying to rouse him.

“Come on, Sherlock, get off of me.” He said a little louder, gently tapping Sherlock’s arm.

Sherlock fussed quietly in his sleep, moving to get more comfortable.

“Wake up, you lump!” John said in his normal tone, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered open.

He smiled a sleepily at John, who did not smile back.

“Sherlock, can you please get off of me?” He asked a little urgently, as Sherlock hadn’t made any sort of indication that he planned on moving at all.

“Oh.” Sherlock said, his voice thick and deep with sleep. He rolled off of John, unpinning him.

“Thank you.” John said, enjoying being able to use his lungs at full capacity once more.

He got out of bed, and stretched. Sherlock didn’t get up, and merely covered his eyes with his arm.

John noted the time on the plain clock hanging on the wall. 9:45 am.

“The morning’s half over, you know.” John pointed out, pulling a pair of soft pajama pants on.

Sherlock moved his arm enough to peek at the clock. “So it is.” He replied.

John laughed. “Come on, get up.” John said in amusement.

He slowly pulled the covers down, revealing Sherlock’s naked body in all it’s glory.

The bedroom drapes were shut, however the window was open, and a chilly breeze was drifting into their room.

Sherlock shivered.

He got up from the bed, pulling on a grey robe.

Before heading to make him and John some tea, he kissed John good morning.

 

As Greg and Mycroft ate a breakfast of toasted English muffins, accompanied by freshly sliced exotic fruit, Mycroft was fairly quiet, as he read the morning paper.

Greg wondered if he’d made a big mistake in saying what he had last night, about the way Mycroft had looked as they made love.

He knew that Mycroft detested being watched in this manner, yet he had found himself unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.

Greg took a sip of water, before clearing his throat.

“Don’t fret over it.” Mycroft told him, not looking up from the paper, before Greg could utter a syllable, knowing precisely what was going through the mind of his boyfriend.

Greg frowned. At times, he could swear that Mycroft could read minds.

“I am sorry, though.” Greg said, wanting to smooth things over as much as possible.

He knew from Mycroft’s silence that what he’d done had bothered him more than the man would ever admit.

Mycroft stopped reading, and looked into Greg’s warm brown eyes.

“There’s nothing to be apologetic about, my dear.” Mycroft told him. “It’s time that I allowed you more freedom in that arena.”

Greg blinked.

“It will simply take some getting used to on my part.” Mycroft continued, folding the paper.

“We’re good, then?” Greg asked, wanting to make certain.

“Of course.” Mycroft answered with a small smile.

After breakfast, Greg left for his shift at the station. “I’ll be back around five.” He told Mycroft.

“I’d like to take you out to dinner tonight.” He added a little tensely.

Though they had been with one another for a few months now, he and Mycroft had never had any public meetings.

Since day one, Greg had been terrified of people finding out that he was seeing a man on a very regular basis.

And now, while he was still a little on edge about people knowing, he was finding himself caring less about what other people might think.

It wasn’t as though he could legally be fired from his post merely because of which gender he was interested in.

However, if his co-workers found out, his work life could end up being a bitch.

He sighed. He was damned if he was going to keep his love some sort of secret.

Something so wonderful shouldn’t be locked away like this.

Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, that would be more than agreeable.” He replied, pleased with Greg’s suggestion. “Shall we say, six thirty?”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, that sounds good.” He answered.

He glanced at his cheap watch. “Well, I have to get going.” He said, adjusting his tie.

Greg stood up from the table, and embraced Mycroft before leaving.

 

As he started his car, James marched over, handing him a jacket.

“I was asked to give this to you, Sir, as the weather is supposed to turn cool this afternoon.” James said in his gentle voice.

Greg was a little taken aback.

It had been years since anyone had actually done something like this.

“Thank-You, James.” He said genuinely, taking the jacket.

James smiled. “You’re welcome, of course, Sir.” He said. “Have a good day.”

Greg nodded. “Yeah, you, too.” He replied, smiling back.

He had found himself smiling more easily since being with Mycroft. The man was doing him a world of good.

As James headed back inside, Greg drove away.

 

As Mycroft prepared for an outing, his mobile began to vibrate.

He retrieved the phone from his inner jacket pocket, seeing that it was his mother calling him.

“Hello, Mummy.” He answered cordially. “To what do I owe the pleasure of your call?”

“Agnes has passed away.” Mrs. Holmes’ soft voice came over the phone. “And I shall be in London for the next two days after attending her funeral.”

She sighed. “And, so I want to visit my boys. I will be arriving in the city tomorrow.” Mrs. Holmes announced, expecting an invitation to stay with her eldest son.

There came none.

 

Mycroft, not wanting to disclose the information regarding his relationship with Greg to his mother, and not wishing to go about hiding it, supposed that this time, she could stay with Sherlock.

“And, where will I be staying?” Mrs. Holmes asked, sounding a little offended that Mycroft hadn’t extended an offer of shelter.

“Perhaps, for a change of pace, you could room at Sherlock’s flat.” Mycroft suggested.

Mrs. Holmes pondered this for a moment.

She would much prefer to stay at Mycroft’s, as he was her favourite son.

But, perhaps it was time to give Sherlock the pleasure of her company.

“Yes, I suppose that would be agreeable.” She said in disappointment, deciding. “I shall leave you to make the arrangements, then.”

Mycroft closed his eyes. He hadn’t stated that she would be able to stay at Sherlock’s; merely that it might be an option.

He took a breath.

“Yes, I’ll speak to him about this as soon as is possible.” Mycroft said, knowing that Sherlock wasn’t likely going to be overly pleased that he’d practically volunteered him to play host to their mother.

“I’ll leave you to it then.” Mrs. Holmes stated, before hanging up.

Mycroft sighed.

It had begun as such a pleasant day. The last thing that he wanted to do right now, was to deal with his typically difficult brother.

Mycroft fired off a text to his brother, inquiring as to where he was.

A few minutes later, a reply came, informing him that Sherlock was at home. (Not that it was any of Mycroft’s concern)

Mycroft ignored his brother’s insolence and told him that he’d be coming round the flat within the next forty-five minutes.

 

John glanced over at Sherlock from behind his laptop.

“Something about a case?” He asked, guessing.

Sherlock deleted the text message from his brother, before meeting John’s eyes.

“Possibly, although from the tone of Mycroft’s texts, I rather think not.” He responded.

John typed another sentence onto his blog, as Sherlock put his mobile away in his pocket.

“Mycroft will be visiting us shortly.” Sherlock told him.

“It’s been a while since he’s come by.” John said thoughtfully. “I wonder what he wants.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Whatever it is, I’m sure that it will be a tedious matter.” He stated. “It always is with my brother.”

John shook his head. “Ah, and there’s the classic sibling rivalry rearing it’s head once more.” He said with a chuckle.

“Oh, shut up, John.” Sherlock told him, smoothing an eyebrow.

 

Mycroft arrived at the flat precisely thirty-eight minutes and twenty-three seconds after the brief conversation with his brother had come to a close.

John let him in, and he made his way to the den, where Sherlock sat.

“Hello, Sherlock.” He greeted his brother.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock replied, hoping that his visit wouldn’t last long.

Mycroft sat down, as John resumed his blog entry.

“You have a spare room available, and Mummy shall be requiring it for the next forty-eight hours.” He said firmly.

Sherlock tilted his head.

“She’s always stayed with you during her visits to London.” Sherlock said, squinting his eyes slightly, working on figuring things out.

While Mycroft was skilled at concealing information from his brother, there were times that Sherlock was able to deduce whatever it was that Mycroft was thinking or was involved in.

“So, what’s changed?” Sherlock asked thoughtfully, putting two fingers to his lips.

Mycroft stared at Sherlock unblinkingly.

“Mummy will be arriving to stay here tomorrow morning; I would get a head start on making it half-way decent for her.” He replied, ignoring his brother’s question.

“What don’t you want her to find out?” Sherlock asked, guessing. After all, what other reason could Mycroft have had for not wanting their mother to stay at his estate?

He knew well that Mycroft was the preferred son, and that unless she had to, she wouldn’t have needed to stay with Sherlock at his flat.

Mycroft gave Sherlock a withering look.

“I hardly think that it matters as to why Mummy’s decided to stay in your depressing little flat.” He retorted. “But rather that she has chosen to allow you to play host to her, rather than holing up in some dreadful hotel.”

Sherlock snorted. Mycroft always had been a mummy’s boy, clutching to her apron strings.

“And should I decide that perhaps I’d rather not entertain 'Mummy'?” He asked, considering the idea.

He and his mother never had gotten along all that famously. But, it might be interesting to see her reaction to John.

Though, her response would likely be exceptionally abrasive to John, and that was something that should be avoided if possible.

Mrs. Holmes could be massively cruel when she intended to be, and had the uncanny ability of being able to make even the most hardened men and women break down into tears, should she set her mind to it.

Mycroft sighed. As per usual, Sherlock was going to be difficult.

“You will allow her to stay, Sherlock.” Mycroft told him firmly. Why did his brother have to be such a constant thorn in his side?

 

Sherlock considered his brother for a moment.

More often than not, he indulged Mycroft, taking on boring cases and the like for him.

This time, however, Mycroft could deal with things on his own.

“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock said, looking boldly at his brother. “I won’t.”

The tips of Mycroft’s ears went pink.

“Sherlock.” He said evenly.

“Mycroft.” Sherlock responded mockingly.

John watched the two grown men act like the spoiled siblings that they were.

“She simply cannot stay at my estate. Do try to be a little understanding, Sherlock.” Mycroft said evenly.

“I don’t seem to know what it is that’s going on, exactly. How can you honestly expect me to be understanding?” Sherlock asked, waiting for his brother’s response.

Mycroft knew that they were each in the same boat. That neither one of them wanted to deal with their mother’s viewpoint on their living situation.

Mrs. Holmes was quite homophobic, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft were willing to lie when their mother inquired as to their love lives. Which, she undoubtedly would at some point during her visit.

This would be more difficult for Mycroft than Sherlock, as he cared far more what their mother thought.

Sherlock had always been more or less the black sheep of the family, and had grown up to be somewhat of a disappointment to their overly expectant mother. She had always demanded her boys to give 110%, and to follow her advice to a T.

And, Sherlock, despite their mother’s adamant comments that he should do as his brother had planned, and take up a position in the government and put his intellect to good use, decided to create the post of ‘consulting detective’ instead.

This had been a sort of final straw for their mother, and she had more or less only contacted Sherlock around the holidays, as she did with the extended family that she never cared to visit.

Therefore, their mother had no idea that Sherlock was in a relationship with John Watson.

Mycroft had been kind enough to keep this information to himself.

Mrs. Holmes hadn’t contacted Mycroft for nearly six months, since before he and Greg had become an item. And so, she had no inkling what her favourite son was up to.

Mycroft could only imagine his mother’s reaction should she find out that both of her sons were in love with men.

He almost shuddered at the thought.

 

Sherlock could see that this meant a lot to his brother, and knew that he wouldn’t have had their mother stay somewhere else unless it seemed imperative that she do so.

Sherlock glanced over to John, who shrugged.

“John could stay at a hotel until Mummy departs.” Mycroft suggested. “If, that is, you do allow her to stay.”

Mycroft had an air of slight desperation about him.

John frowned. “Or, I could stay here and act like a normal roommate.” He stated, feeling annoyed at this last comment.

“No, John.” Sherlock said. “She would easily be able to tell what is going on between us. And that would not be a good thing.”

Mycroft nodded. “He’s absolutely right, I’m afraid.” He added.

John didn’t like being kept a secret, but at the same time, he could understand.

Sherlock finally agreed to let their mother stay, on one condition.

“I see no reason why John should have to stay at some germ infested hotel, when he could simply stay in the room that our mother would otherwise be using.” Sherlock stated, crossing his arms.

Mycroft refrained from letting his uneasiness show.

“John could always stay at one of the better hotels, where the rooms are actually cleaned.” Mycroft said stubbornly.

Sherlock steepled his hands beneath his chin. “Interesting.” He said softly.

“Whatever are you hiding, brother?” Sherlock asked with a slight grin.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

“Must you always be like this?” He complained.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “I should think that you would be in better spirits, seeing as how I have fairly agreed to your demand.” He said, watching his brother closely.

“I would prefer not to entertain guests at present, which is precisely why Mummy simply cannot stay with me.” Mycroft stated.

John felt awkward listening to the conversation.

“John wouldn’t be a bother.” Sherlock said. “All he needs is a room.”

Mycroft realised that he was going to have to agree to Sherlock’s terms, or he would be faced with the prospect of his mother discovering the relationship that he and Greg had.

He sighed. “Yes, all right.” Mycroft said, not pleased in the least.

Once John learned about Greg, and he would, (the look on Greg’s face would give things away instantly, even to someone not skilled in the art of deduction) it would only be a matter of time before Sherlock was in the know.

Mycroft frowned.

Still, it was better than Mummy finding out.

 

Greg Lestrade stood over the spot that a young girl had been struck and nearly killed by a black pick-up truck, which hadn’t been moved since the accident an hour ago.

Greg had been in the police cruiser, chasing after the wanted criminal driving the truck.

Possession of drugs, human and drug trafficking, as well as murder, was what Keith Darwin was guilty of and had been on the run for the past fortnight.

By mere chance, while on a routine drive-by patrol, he had spotted Darwin in the black truck, driving along Fleet Street.

Upon noticing the police car, Darwin had sped up, changing lanes to get away.

Greg immediately flicked on his lights and siren, radioing for back-up.

Eight minutes later, the truck hit the small girl, as the back-up Greg had requested cut the wanted man off.

The man was taken into custody, statements from witnesses were taken, and as Greg began to administer first aid to the victim, it had begun to rain.

Paramedics arrived on the scene soon after, and the girl had been taken away in the ambulance.

Whether or not she would survive was unknown at this point, and it made Greg feel ill.

Despite the years he’d spent as a police officer, he still got that twinge in his belly whenever he saw a suffering victim. Especially when it was a kid.

He wiped the rain out of his eyes, and got into the car.

There was nothing else to do, and his shift had ended shortly before the chase had ensued.

He closed his eyes, clearing his mind, before starting the car and driving back to the station to complete the necessary paperwork and pick up his personal vehicle.

He texted Mycroft that he would be late, but that dinner was still on.

Mycroft let him know that was just fine, and that he’d be looking forward to the date.

 

Mycroft tucked his mobile back into his jacket.

“Yes, well, I should be going.” He told John and Sherlock. “I shall have a room prepared for you, John.” He added. “You can come by any time after 11:30 tomorrow morning.”

John nodded. “Right, then.” He replied. He’d never been to Mycroft’s estate before, and felt a little uneasy about it.

He always found himself feeling rather out of place in fancy locales, and Mycroft’s home was bound to be notably extravagant.

He pressed his lips into a line.

“I really wish that I could just stay here.” He said unhappily.

“I know, John. But trust me, if you did, it would not be a remotely enjoyable experience.” He warned.

“Mother is not very accepting of anyone, and I know for a fact, that she would do her best to make things miserable for you.”

Sherlock looked ever so slightly sad. “Mother has attempted to sway me into marrying more than a few women in order to ‘better’ myself.” He said. “I am, in her own words, a failure.”

He shrugged, and hid the look on his face. "And, because I have fallen in love with and live with a man, she would purposely punish us both to the best of her ability."

“It just goes to prove that you simply cannot please everyone.” He finished.

John embraced him.

“My poor Sherlock.” He said softly.

“It’s nothing, really, John.” He replied. “I learned as a child, that I would never be what it was that my mother had wanted. I no longer care what the woman does or does not approve of.”

John went up on his tiptoes, and kissed his cheek.

As he put his lips to Sherlock’s smooth skin, inhaling the cinnamon scent that he was wearing, John’s mobile rang.

He leaned away, answering the call.

“Hello.” He said. The number hadn’t shown up on the call display.

“Hello, am I speaking with Mr. Watson?” A female voice asked.

“Yes, who’s calling please?” He asked curiously, as Sherlock sat down.

“Um, my name’s Melissa… Molly Hooper told me that you were looking for a surrogate mother…” The nervous voice said.

John cleared his throat. He had told Molly that while he thought that she would be a good fit, that it just didn’t feel completely right to he and Sherlock. She was very understanding, and told him that she would ask a couple of her close girlfriends, if that was okay.

She promised to respect their privacy, and only give information out if John and Sherlock allowed it.

That morning, Molly had called John and told him that she knew of a lovely woman that could be perfect for them.

Molly told him a bit about the lady, and John said that it would be all right for her to give her friend his mobile number.

And now, he was talking to the potential surrogate. He swallowed hard.

Sherlock noticed John’s sudden nervousness, and paid attention to the side of the conversation that he could hear as it ensued.

“Yes, ah, we are.” John answered, trying to calm his nerves.

“Right, well, Molly’s told me a bit about what you’re looking for and I think that it would be a good idea to meet up.” Melissa stated, a little less nervously. “In a neutral location, of course.” She added.

“Yeah, of course. That sounds like a good plan.” John said. “Can you hold on just one second, please?” He asked.

“Sure.” Melissa answered, and John put the phone to his chest.

Sherlock looked at him intently. “A prospective surrogate.” He stated knowingly.

John nodded excitedly. “She wants to meet us, when did you want to see her?” He asked.

“Any time, John.” Sherlock told him, feeling glad to see John so enthusiastic.

John nodded, putting the phone back to his ear.

“When would you like to meet?” John asked her kindly.

There was a short pause.

“Well, I could meet you this evening, if you’re free.” Melissa replied. “I know of a quiet little pub downtown that would be ideal.”

John thought that it would be a good idea to meet somewhere that they didn’t frequent, for privacy reasons, and agreed.

Melissa gave them the address, and they agreed to meet at seven thirty.

 

John told him about the other side of the conversation.

Sherlock thought deeply. So far, this woman seemed to be rather run of the mill.

“And this time, try not to overwhelm the poor woman with questions and observations.” John pleaded.

The last time they’d tried this, Amber, the woman that they’d met, ended up bursting into tears from the sheer pressure that Sherlock was putting on her.

“We need to glean all that we can, John.” Sherlock said haughtily. “And, how else are we going to learn the truth?”

John put his hands on his hips. “All right, you have a point, but we can take things nice and easy instead.” He told Sherlock.

“I know that you want us to find the best woman we can, and we will.” John said, his voice a little softer.

“But, we need to be patient and take things slowly. It’s not exactly like ordering a pizza.” John added. “I can only imagine what it must be like on their end of things.”

Sherlock hadn’t thought as much about that, concentrating on mainly gathering as much information on the women as he could.

“… Yes, John. You’re right.” Sherlock said slowly. “It is quite a lot for the women that we meet to handle.”

Sherlock was quiet for a brief while.

“I don’t think that I could go through with such a thing, if I were a woman. To give up my own child.” He said, catching John off guard.

 

As Greg drove to the estate that he and Mycroft now shared, he listened to a classic rock station.

He concentrated on his plans for the evening, shifting the less unpleasant events of the day to the back of his mind.

He pulled up to the gates, which swung open as the guard recognised him.

After six pm, the gates were shut and weren’t left open again until the next day at six am.

He parked the car, and stepped out of it into the pouring rain.

He stepped into the house, removing his wet jacket and shoes, putting them to dry.

James inquired as to whether or not he could be of use.

“Oh, no, that’s all right, lad.” Greg replied kindly.

James nodded, and left to return to whatever it was he’d been working on.

 

Greg found Mycroft lying in bed, wearing nothing but a sheer black dressing gown, his smooth legs showing nicely below the hem.

“Wow…” Greg muttered, evoking a small smile from Mycroft.

He cleared his throat, and began removing his wet clothes, changing into a casual grey suit.

“Where will we be dining tonight?” Mycroft asked. He was pleased that Greg was comfortable enough to go out on a public date.

Greg tied his bowtie.

“Well, there’s this new high end Jamaican cuisine restaurant just off of Oxford.” Greg answered.

“I’ve never tried Jamaican fare before.” Mycroft said, getting up off of the bed.

“You’ll love it!” Greg told him enthusiastically. “Great stuff. The nanny I had as a kid was Jamaican, and she never cooked anything but traditional dishes from her homeland.” He said, thinking back and feeling nostalgic.

Mycroft slipped out of his flimsy dressing gown, and began to dress himself in one of his classic black suits.

Greg found himself watching, as Mycroft’s body was concealed by the fabric.

“Do you like what you see?” Mycroft asked teasingly.

Greg winked. “Always.” He replied.

 

Greg had convinced Mycroft to let him drive them to the restaurant, rather than bother the chauffer.

They found themselves discussing the political system of Jamaica along the way.

Well, Greg more or less listened as Mycroft told him about it.

 

They hadn’t waited long at all for a table, despite how busy the restaurant had been.

The owner had recognised Mycroft Holmes’ face, and made a point of providing the best service available.

Their meals had arrived in decent time, and while Greg was thoroughly enjoying his dinner, Mycroft couldn’t say the same.

But, this was something of an important occasion, with Greg actually inviting him out, and he wasn’t going to spoil it.

Mycroft ate everything on his plate, and didn’t let on in the slightest that he rather disliked the food.

 

Afterward, Mycroft took Greg to a nearby bakery that he particularly liked, and they chose something to take home for dessert.

They settled on a pretty strawberry shortcake. Greg had noticed how Mycroft had been looking at it, and had been a touch amused.

Mycroft did have quite the affinity for both pie and cake, which Greg thought was adorable.

 

Once they got home, they each had a slice of the confection, before heading to bed.

It had been a very long day for them both, and as Greg lay in Mycroft’s strong arms, he felt utterly content.

And, as Mycroft held Greg, he felt complete.

It was not that he needed someone else to make him feel whole.

However, at the same time, Greg filled a hole in his soul that he hadn’t even realised was there.

As they drifted into vivid dreams, Greg nuzzled further into Mycroft’s chest, relishing the feeling of being held so close.

 

The meeting with Melissa had actually gone quite well, and even Sherlock seemed vaguely impressed with her.

Melissa was a rather shy woman, who was very polite.

She was very pretty, had claimed to have a clean bill of health and no family history of disease or harmful addictions. She was 26 years old, and in decent shape. And, she had a high IQ, which pleased Sherlock, who found her to be completely honest with them.

All in all, they had been comfortable with Melissa, and she seemed to be pretty comfortable with them.

When John had asked her why she was interested in being a surrogate for them, she’d had a good answer, which hadn’t been rehearsed.

“Well,” She said quietly. “I like children. From a distance.” Melissa laughed nervously, fearing that they would judge her harshly for this.

“I mean, I like kids, but I can’t stand them for extended periods of time.” She went on honestly.

“I wouldn’t want to have any of my own, but I think that if I can help someone else achieve their dream of becoming a parent, then why not help them?” She looked thoughtful.

“I mean, if I did want children, but was unable to have them, I would be pretty grateful to someone who was willing to help me.” Melissa took a sip of her lemonade. “And that’s precisely why I want to help you become parents. Because, it just seems like the right thing to do.”

John nodded, taking her answer in.

“The two of you are an adorable couple, and you really seem to be in love… I think that you’d make wonderful parents.” Melissa said.

John grinned and blushed, and Sherlock fidgeted slightly in his seat.

“Now, I know there are a few different methods to conceive with. What did you have in mind?” Melissa inquired.

John and Sherlock exchanged glances.

“Well, to be honest, we were thinking that artificial insemination would be the path to go down.” John answered.

“Okay. Well, when did you want to start trying?” She asked, thinking that now she would really have to watch her diet.

“As soon as you are willing.” John told her seriously. “Of course, you’ll need to have a full check-up, just to make certain you’re healthy enough, before we proceed with the process.”

Melissa nodded. “Absolutely, I understand.” She said. “Well, with my cycle, it would be best begin trying on the thirteenth of this month.”

John’s eyes widened. “You’ve done some research into this, I see.” He said.

Melissa cocked her head. “Of course. I never commit to anything without knowing as much as I can beforehand.” She replied.

Sherlock nodded. “I like her.” He said, looking at John.

John chuckled. “That is a huge compliment, coming from him.” John told her.

Melissa smiled. “I’m glad.” She said genuinely, looking warmly at each of them.

 

After a bit more discussion, John, Sherlock, and Melissa left the pub.

“It was really nice meeting you.” Melissa told them genuinely, hailing a cab.

“Same here.” John admitted.

John and Sherlock caught a cab home, and once they were inside the flat, Sherlock gave John a firm hug.

“What’s this for?” John asked, snuggling into his warmth.

“I thought that you might need this.” He replied.

John smiled. “I think that you needed this, too, Sherlock.” He said, feeling very happy.

Sherlock leaned his chin on the top of John’s head.

“You might be onto something.” He said softly.

 

John made them each a cup of tea, and they discussed Melissa a bit more, before going to bed.

The rain hadn’t stopped, and as it pelted the bedroom window, John and Sherlock each thought about the journey that they were about to embark upon.

The prospect of actually beginning the process was quite thrilling, if a touch daunting.

There would be legal documents to sign, ensuring that Melissa would indeed give them full parental rights, among a number of other things to get in order.

There would be medical appointments, possible complications, and plenty of stress.

Two hours later, neither John nor Sherlock had been able to fall asleep.

John's thoughts began to focus on Sherlock's firm arse, which was currently pressed against his left hip.

John placed a hand on one firm buttock, giving it a gentle squeeze.

Sherlock turned his head to peek at John.

He flipped over, and gazed into John's eyes in the dim light.

John leaned in, pressing his smooth lips to Sherlock's, running a hand over Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock brought John close, so that their fronts touched.

Their growing erections brushed against each other, as John's tongue delved into Sherlock's mouth hungrily.

He ran a hand along Sherlock's back, as he felt his arse being gripped.

John ground his cock into Sherlock's groin, giving a soft sigh.

Sherlock moved away, maneuvering himself so that he was straddling John's shoulders, his arse towards John's face.

As he began licking John's lower abdomen, trailing his way down to the towering cock before his face, he could feel wet heat surround his erection.

He took John into his mouth, giving as good as he was getting.

He could hear John's carnal grunts, as he skillfully swirled his tongue around the base of John's cock, making his way to the tip.

With one of his hands, he cupped John's balls, massaging them gently.

As he felt the rush of pleasure overtake him, Sherlock found himself stopping his actions, unable to do anything but focus on the intensity that washed over him.

Just as Sherlock was about to spurt, John took the full length of Sherlock's manhood down his throat.

Sherlock came, crying out as he held onto the bed frame to steady himself, John swallowing as Sherlock shot a load straight down his throat.

John let Sherlock's cock slip out of his mouth, gently sucking.

As the tip of the softening dick left his mouth, there was a soft 'pop'.

Sherlock continued on pleasuring John with his mouth, moving more fervently than before, making John moan loudly.

"Fuck, fuck, oh fuck..." John fairly chanted as he arched his hips, shoving his cock into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock found this movement rather vulgar, and did not appreciate it, but let it slide just this once.

He sucked a little harder as he bobbed his head, John's orgasm ripping through him.

Sherlock tasted the salty cum in his mouth as it shot forcefully along his tongue.

He swallowed, running his hands over John's thighs as the man shivered with the aftershocks.

Sherlock moved off of John, and lay down next to him, listening as John caught his breath.

Sated and tired, they finally drifted into sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

Greg awoke before Mycroft, at a little after six am, and since he was unable to fall back to sleep, he decided to begin his day with a shower.

He gingerly got out of bed, being careful not to disturb Mycroft.

Greg smiled to himself as he looked at his sleeping lover.

Mycroft looked entirely peaceful, lying flat on his back, his hair a complete mess and an upper corner of the blanket gathered in his left hand.

Greg turned away from the sight, and crept quietly into the bathroom, silently shutting the door behind him.

He laid out a fresh towel, and started the water.

 

 

Greg thought that he heard a noise in the bedroom, but after pausing to listen closely and hearing nothing further, shrugged and stepped into the steaming shower.

The water felt delightful, as it drenched his body.

Greg just stood there for a while, not yet fully awake.

He closed his eyes, letting the water drip down onto his face.

“Greg?” He heard Mycroft’s voice call softly from the other side of the glass.

“Oh, shit, I woke you, didn’t I?” Greg asked, feeling like a jerk.

“No, you are not to blame.” Mycroft answered, after yawning tiredly. “I received an urgent phone call, requesting some information that only I could provide.”

Greg breathed a sigh of relief. 

“I heard the water, and thought that perhaps you might be willing to share your shower with me.” Mycroft continued.

Greg slid the glass door open enough to peek out at him.

Mycroft was stark naked, and was obviously fully expecting Greg to let him in.

 

Greg chuckled.

“Sure, why not?” He asked, sliding the glass door open enough for Mycroft to get through.

Mycroft stepped into the shower, closing the door behind him.

He leaned in to kiss Greg ‘good morning’, and then grabbed a bar of expensive soap.

He lathered it in his hands, before setting the bar down and cleansing himself.

Greg picked the soap up, and began to wash Mycroft’s back.

As Greg washed Mycroft’s shoulders, he massaged gently, finding more than a few knots of muscle.

Mycroft bit his lip, as the pain from the tight muscles was rubbed away, dissipating the tension.

“That’s lovely, Greg.” Mycroft told him, relaxing further.

Greg massaged his way down Mycroft’s back.

As Greg massaged lower, he was surprised to find that there were knots of muscle in Mycroft’s buttocks.

“Hell, My, how do you manage to get so tense?” He asked with a shake of his head.

Mycroft chuckled, glancing back at Greg, who was skillfully kneading the muscular tension away.

“As you might well imagine, my occupation is quite a stressful one.” Mycroft replied. “Though, I do enjoy it.”

Greg never had been enlightened as to what it was that Mycroft did for work.

“What on earth is it that you do, anyway?” Greg asked, wondering if Mycroft would actually tell him.

All he knew, was that Mycroft worked in some high-level post in the upper government. Exactly what he did, very few people knew.

“Ah, Greg. I’m afraid that I can’t answer that any more than I already have in the past.” Mycroft responded.

He would have liked to have been at liberty to divulge this information to the man that he loved, but simply couldn’t.

If Greg knew, then it could potentially put him at risk of danger to his being, and there was no way that Mycroft was willing to put Greg in that position.

Mycroft turned around, and began to wash Greg’s skin.

He gave the man a quick once over, letting his eyes travel along the firm body.

Greg was in good shape, not overly muscular, which Mycroft appreciated.

He felt that overly fit people tended to look rather ridiculous, and it was certainly a turn off for him.

Greg’s body was at the perfect level of fitness for Mycroft’s liking.

He lathered up the firm chest, taking his time in washing the thick chest hair.

Mycroft’s hands slipped along the slick skin, sliding along the toned torso and down to Greg's slender hips.

Greg moaned, and leaned against a wall, as Mycroft’s hands veered lower.

Greg felt Mycroft soap up his bollocks, then tantalisingly move his fingers to his perineum.

He was half-hard, as Mycroft wrapped a hand around the thickening dick, cleansing him.

Greg practically eye-fucked him, then leaned in and kissed him, his stubble grazing a little roughly against Mycroft’s smooth skin.

Mycroft freed his hands up, and let Greg do whatever it was that he would.

He could feel Greg’s stiff cock against his leg as he moved closer, Greg’s hands claiming his smooth arse.

Mycroft’s spine stiffened a bit, as Greg’s fingers found his entrance.

Greg stopped, and searched Mycroft’s eyes.

Was it fear that prevented Mycroft from wanting to be touched like this?

Had something happened to scar him, or was he simply like this naturally?

Greg didn’t want to ask, feeling that if Mycroft wanted him to know, then he would say something.

Mycroft merely leaned in, licking along Greg’s throat, pausing momentarily to suck at Greg’s pulse point.

Greg moved his hands to Mycroft’s prominent member, grasping and toying with it.

Mycroft leaned his hips forwards, pressing himself further into Greg’s hand.

“Considering that I’ve sent the staff away for the day, and that John won’t be here until after eleven, perhaps we should move our activities to the den.” Mycroft suggested almost playfully.

Greg raised an eyebrow.

He had no arguments, and so he nodded in agreement, a wicked grin on his face.

He’d wanted to take Mycroft in one of those red velvet chairs for the longest time.

Bend him over the back of it and just fuck the living daylights out of him.

They’d made love in many of the rooms, and even on the grounds, yet somehow, they’d not done so in the den.

Well, that was about to change.

Mycroft shut the water off, and stepped out of the shower, towelling himself dry.

Greg followed suit, and then they exited the bathroom.

They headed to the den, completely nude, erections bobbing merrily as they walked.

 

Mycroft seemed to be permitting Greg to take the lead, despite a touch of uneasiness.

Greg sat him down in a velvet covered chair, kneeling before him like a peasant, kissing Mycroft’s thick cock before mouthing it teasingly.

Mycroft closed his eyes and leaned back in the chair, spreading his legs apart.

Greg cupped Mycroft’s testicles, arousing Mycroft further.

“I’d like you to lean over the back.” Greg told him, and Mycroft complied.

“Spread ‘em.” Greg told him, in the same tone as he would use for a prisoner.

Mycroft grinned.

This was different, and so far, he was enjoying it.

“Yes, Officer.” Mycroft returned, his tone low.

Greg found himself getting goosebumps at this.

He leaned in, and began tonguing Mycroft’s arsehole, paying close attention to how Mycroft reacted.

Mycroft let out a small gasp, as Greg ran his tongue around and around, exciting him.

Greg pressed his tongue into Mycroft, who was hanging rather firmly onto the chair.

It wasn’t taking much at all to get Mycroft squirming, to get him to yearn for more.

As Mycroft bit his lip, leaning his forehead against the back of the chair, perspiration beginning to accumulate along his pale skin, Greg stood up.

Pressing his body against Mycroft’s, Greg whispered in his ear.

“What do you want?” He asked, kissing Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft shivered, and said nothing.

It was a bizarre feeling, being on the receiving end of things.

Greg repeated his query.

Mycroft, not feeling exceptionally gifted with speech at the moment, reached back and gripped Greg’s cock, leading him straight to his entrance.

Greg realised that they were missing a vital item, and told Mycroft to hang on.

He went and retrieved the blueberry flavoured lubricant, slathering Mycroft’s pretty hole with the liquid before sliding some along his demanding cock.

 

He positioned himself and gradually sank into Mycroft’s tight heat.

“Fuck, you feel so damn good.” Greg sighed, running his hands along Mycroft’s sides, before trailing a hand down to Mycroft’s rock hard cock.

He was leaking pre-cum generously, as Greg gently thrust in and out, angling himself for deep penetration.

He felt Mycroft begin to move his hips accordingly, moaning softly.

Soon, Mycroft was driving himself onto Greg’s prick, crying out louder than he’d done in the past, as ferocious spasms of sensation struck him.

Greg hastened his speed, chasing his own orgasm, as Mycroft came in his lover's hand with a noisy keening which both delighted and stunned Greg.

The purely sexual sounds enhanced Greg’s strong orgasm, as he plunged hard and deep, nearly causing the chair to tip over.

Greg shuddered as the feeling reached it’s highest peak, leaning his cheek against Mycroft’s back.

When it was over, Greg pulled out, wiping himself with a soft cloth.

They moved onto the sofa, spooning.

Mycroft held Greg close, inhaling his heady scent.

“I do love the smell of sex on you.” He murmered.

 

A while later, after they had both calmed down, they went to clean themselves up before John arrived on the premises.

As he stood up, Mycroft sighed in disappointment as he noticed the wet spot covering the back of the chair.

“Oh, damn.” He swore, rubbing at it with the damp cloth. “Semen is such a persistent stain.”

Mycroft glanced at the clock on the wall, noting the time.

“John should be here any time, we ought to get ready.” He said, turning away from the furniture.

Greg nodded.

“Yeah, I s’pose so.” He agreed.

 

 

It was shortly before ten am that Sherlock received a call on his mobile, indicating that his mother's plane was landing.

After a light breakfast, John packed a few things and prepared to leave 221 B for the next couple of days.

As John reached the door, he turned back to Sherlock.

“Are you going to be all right, staying all alone with her?” John asked, a touch hesitant to leave him to deal with things all alone.

“That woman does sound like a real piece of work.” He added.

Sherlock smiled.

“That she is.” He agreed. “Yet, I am confident that I am able to withstand anything that she can come up with.”

John knew that Sherlock liked to make a show of being resilient and uncaring, but had lived with him for far too long to believe it.

He knew quite well that despite whatever Sherlock might have claimed in the past, that he was affected by cruel words, and that sometimes, he got hurt.

Of course, John didn’t mention this.

“I’ll be perfectly fine, John.” Sherlock assured him

John gave him a tight smile, and gave him one more hug, before leaving to get into the cab waiting for him out front.

As the cab pulled away, he waved to Sherlock, who watched from the doorway as the vehicle pulled away.

Sherlock waved back, as Mrs. Hudson joined him in the open doorway.

“You two haven’t split up, have you?” She asked, frowning.

“Of course not, Mrs. Hudson.” Sherlock answered, as the cab disappeared into traffic.

“Oh, good.” She replied with a soft little smile. “When I saw John leaving with those bags, I was a little worried.”

Sherlock gazed down at her, and reached out to put an arm around her small shoulders.

She was almost like family after all these years, and he appreciated her.

Mrs. Hudson was kind, generous, and motherly.

Not to mention tough, clever and quite worthy of admiration.

Sherlock smiled down at her. “No, Mrs. Hudson, I doubt very much if John and I will ever part ways.” He said genuinely.

 

 

John arrived at Mycroft’s estate nearly an hour later, and the cabbie dropped him off just outside the gates.

After confirming John’s identity, the guard allowed him through.

He made the trek up to the house, looking about the property.

It really was a very attractive place.

John supposed that it must have cost a few million pounds.

Upon reaching the front door, James was there to greet him, having learned of his presence from the gate security.

“Good morning, Sir. My name is James, and I’ve been instructed to show you around.” He said in his friendly manner, smiling politely.

“Good morning.” John returned, and followed the man inside.

“Would you like me to take your bags, Sir?” James asked.

John considered this, but thought that it might be a little heavy for the thin man.

“No, I can manage, thanks.” He said, as the younger man nodded.

“As you wish, Sir.” He replied. “Would you like me to show you to your room first?” James asked.

John said that would be fine, and followed the servant.

He was led to a large room with a sizeable walkout balcony.

It was a tastefully decorated room, which John immediately liked.

He set his bags down, and looked about, taking it all in.

James watched him silently, waiting for John to let him know what he’d like to see next or to dismiss him.

John cleared his throat. 

“Is there somewhere that I’m supposed to meet Mycroft, or anything like that?” He asked, thinking that Mycroft would likely want to speak to him.

“Not that I’m aware of, Sir.” James answered.

John shifted uncomfortably. 

“Please just call me John.” He asked with a half-smile.

James looked a touch uneasy.

“Really, I would much prefer it if you would use my name.” John reassured him.

James took a breath.

“Yes… John.” He said.

John smiled. “That’s much better.” He said earnestly.

“Would you be willing to show me to the den?” John asked.

James nodded, and began guiding him along the hallway.

 

Mrs. Holmes waited on a bench outside the Heathrow airport for the car that would take her to her son’s flat, she tapped her high heeled foot impatiently.

She’d been waiting nearly ten minutes and she was not happy about it.

Yes, the plane had landed early, but still…

It was another fifteen minutes before her ride arrived.

She reproached the driver, who did her best to take it all in stride.

Mr. Holmes had warned her that his mother could be difficult, but had been instructed not to talk back.

While she screamed internally, she quietly nodded and said ‘Yes, Ma’am’, driving as quickly as legally possible to Baker Street.

“What’s your name?” Mrs. Holmes demanded, as the driver came to a stop outside the building.

“Annie.” She answered evenly.

Mrs. Holmes feigned a smile.

“Right, Annie…” She said in a sickening tone. “I’m going to give you a bit of advice; start looking for other work. Because, you are complete shite as a chauffeur.”

Annie swallowed down a scathing retort, as the older woman got out of the car, slamming the door forcefully.

 

Mrs. Holmes gave 221 Baker Street a scowl.

She had expected something better than this.

It was bad enough that she had to stay with Sherlock, the bitter disappointment of the family…

Why couldn’t Mycroft have done as he always had, and let her stay with him?

Mrs. Holmes frowned deeply, walking up to the door and ringing the bell.

Sherlock met her at the door, a blank expression on his young face, as his mother walked past him into the flat.

As she entered, she gave a disgusted tut.

“How on earth can you live like this?” She asked incredulously, glaring at her surroundings in distaste.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back.

“Unlike some people, I prefer not to live surrounded by gaudy, over-priced furnishings in a ridiculously large home.” He retorted.

Sherlock was very fond of the flat that he and John shared, and wouldn’t have given it up to live in even Buckingham Palace.

Mrs. Holmes sniffed.

“And what is that that I smell?” She asked rudely, covering her nose.

Sherlock sat down in his favourite chair.

“That would be the pair of brains sitting on the table.” Sherlock gestured towards the kitchen.

“Oh, how ghastly!” Mrs. Holmes replied, thoroughly disgusted.

Sherlock sighed.

This was going to be a tiring two days.

“Well, aren’t you going to show me to my room?” She demanded, straightening her spine.

Sherlock looked her in the eyes.

"Down the hall to your right, third door in on the left.” Sherlock told her. “Across from the bathroom.” He added, recalling her germ phobic habits.

His mother’s mouth dropped open. “But… I can’t stay in a room across from the bloody bathroom. What kind of savage have you become?” She asked indignantly.

“Should you prefer, there are many hotels taking reservations.” Sherlock pointed out.

Mrs. Holmes glared at him.

“Fine, if that’s how you’re going to be about things.” She said through her teeth. “I’ll use that room, but only because I have no other choice.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, as his mother stormed into the room she’d be staying in and slammed the door.


	5. Chapter 5

John sat on the red velvet covered sofa, feeling quite out of place.

He sighed, glancing around at the furnishings, thinking how sharp of a contrast Mycroft’s home was in comparison to the flat he and Sherlock shared.

Shortly after sitting down in the den, he could the sharp click of shoes on the marble floor, resounding off of the walls.

“Hello, John.” Mycroft greeted pleasantly enough, despite the obvious displeasure at having him intruding on his privacy.

John nodded. “Hi.” He replied, wanting nothing more than to leave.

Mycroft’s home seemed cold to him, and he wasn’t all that comfortable being there.

Mycroft sat down in a chair directly across from him, unbuttoning his jacket.

“There is one condition upon your staying in my home.” Mycroft began in a solemn manner.

“Whatever you may become enlightened of during your visit, must be kept to yourself.” He continued. “Will this be an issue?” 

Mycroft bored his eyes into John’s making him slightly nervous.

“Um, I don’t think so, no.” He answered. “I’m not going to go rabbiting about to people with gossip about you, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

Mycroft gave a subtle nod. “I rather think that would be unlike you, however it’s always best to make oneself perfectly clear, don’t you think?” He asked in his smooth voice.

John agreed.

“Good.” Mycroft stated, “Now, should you need anything during your stay, you’ll find James to be more than obliging.”

Mycroft stood, and buttoned his jacket back up.

“Feel free to make yourself at home.” He told John, before leaving the room.

 

It was nearing lunch, and John was becoming hungry.

He wandered around the expansive home, looking to find the kitchen.

John found himself feeling lost, with so many rooms and hallways.

He scoffed to himself. Why on earth would just one person live in such a big home?

It was a while before he finally found the kitchen, just as he was thinking that he might not be able to locate it on his own.

As John entered the room, he found a personal chef preparing two plates of rather fancy looking food.

“What are you doing in my kitchen?” The man in the white apron demanded huffily.

John raised an eyebrow. “Well, I’m trying to get something to eat…” He replied, thinking that the chef’s inquiry was pathetically redundant.

“Then you place an order with James, which is then relayed to me.” The chef snapped. “Guests do not come into my kitchen without permission.”

John clenched his jaw.

There was no need for this man to be so rude to him.

After all, he was a guest. Shouldn’t he be treated with a bit more respect than this?

“Out you go, the dining room is through there.” The chef pointed behind John, who turned and left.

His eyes widened in surprise to see Greg Lestrade sitting at the table, waiting for his lunch.

Greg gave him a small nod. “Hey, John.” He said, his cheeks turning ever so slightly pink.

They both turned to look as Mycroft entered the room, sitting down across from Greg.

John blinked, and wondered exactly what was going on.

 

 

“Sit down, John.” Mycroft said. “I’ve taken the liberty of having your noon meal prepared for you.”

John somehow felt like a third wheel, but sat down.

“So…” He began, but then realised that he had no idea of how to finish that sentence.

Greg looked over to him.

“Yeah?” He asked, shifting in his seat.

John tried to think of something to say, and couldn’t come up with anything.

“…Nothing.” He responded, feeling a bit embarrassed.

John was beginning to realise why it was that Mycroft had been so unwilling to allow him to stay over while Mrs. Holmes was at 221 B.

Greg shifted his gaze to the centrepiece sitting on the table, as Mycroft watched John closely, seeing that he was slowly learning what it was that he was intruding upon.

They sat in silence for the next few minutes, before their meals were brought out to them.

As they ate, not speaking a word, John couldn’t help but notice a few furtive glances between Mycroft and Greg.

It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was going on.

 

 

After lunch, after Greg had departed from the dining room, Mycroft repeated what he’d mentioned earlier about keeping information to himself.

“I feel confident that you will be prudent in regards to confidentiality.” Mycroft mentioned in quite a sombre tone.

John raised his eyebrows. “Is that a threat?” He asked.

Mycroft stood a little straighter. “One could interpret it as such.” He answered seriously, before turning and walking away dramatically.

John shook his head.

He felt that Mycroft was taking things a bit too far.

It wasn’t as though he was going to go gossiping about what he would see while on Mycroft’s estate.

Who would he even tell?

 

Sherlock stood at the kitchen counter, dissecting one of the brains with absolute precision.

As he was cutting into the cerebral cortex, his mother finally opened the door to her bedroom and came out.

Mrs. Holmes was a short, thin woman with shoulder length ash blonde hair. She had the same vivid eyes as her second born, and her skin was very pale.

She often had a cold expression fixed on her bony face, no matter the occasion, and nobody had seen her smile in nearly a decade.

Since her husband had passed away, she had become almost unbearably bitter.

Mrs. Homes was constantly having to hire new staff, what with the high rate of turnover.

If she wasn’t firing her staff members, they were handing in their resignations.

“I’m hungry.” She announced to Sherlock, stepping into the kitchen.

“The shopping hasn’t been done yet, so you’ll either have to wait or eat a bowl of dry cereal.” Sherlock replied tonelessly. “Unless you’d like to dine out.”

Mrs. Holmes wrinkled her nose.

Perhaps she should have brought a member of staff with her to make this trip more endurable.

She never ate anything that wasn’t prepared by one of her personal chefs, with the exception of when she stayed with Mycroft, where his chef would prepare her meals.

She didn’t entrust the task to anyone else, what with her fears in regards to germs and contamination.

Mrs. Holmes didn’t feel that Sherlock’s home was nearly sanitary enough, and refused to eat any food that came from the cupboards or refrigerator.

Sherlock ignored her, continuing to work away at the brain in front of him.

“You could at least pay some attention to me, if you aren’t going to make sure that I won’t starve.” She complained. “I am your mother, after all.”

Sherlock closed his eyes.

Why had he agreed to this? He hadn’t seen his mother in years, and had been more than content with that fact.

He considered texting Mycroft, telling him that either he could take their mother in, or she could find somewhere else to go.

“What is it that you want from me?” He asked with a deep frown, finally looking at the woman.

“Nothing that you could handle, obviously.” Mrs. Holmes responded coldly.

Sherlock maintained a blank expression, shoving all of his feelings deep down, as he’d learned to do so very long ago.

“Should you be so miserable, you can always find other lodgings.” He pointed out.

Mrs. Holmes sneered.

“There’s nowhere else for me to go.” She said. “Would you really just kick me out into the street like some unwanted beast?” 

Sherlock gave her a thin smile. “If things continue in this fashion, you shall find that out for yourself.” He told her honestly.

He knew from past experience, that his mother’s behaviour would steadily worsen over time.

Sherlock was not willing to put up with it ever again.

He’d spent too many years swallowing whatever his mother had said, letting her bully and abuse him.

Sherlock was a grown man, and while his brother could adore their mother all he wished, he simply didn’t have to.

Mrs. Holmes had always treated her sons in drastically different ways.

Mycroft had been revered, and could do no wrong. Any little thing that he accomplished would be praised to no end. The support and love that he received was substantial.

Sherlock, on the other hand, had been ignored and neglected, except when his mother was in a rage.

Despite the mental and sometimes physical abuse that she would inflict on him, beginning at a shockingly early age, nobody would step in.

His father did his best to console Sherlock, when he was quite young, as he cried and wondered why his mother hated him.

But, since his father was a weak and emotionally distant man, there was only so much that he could provide to his son.

Sherlock had spent most of his life alone, unloved and distant from others, believing that being alone protected him.

And anyway, when he had made attempts at friendship, he was rejected as he quite often had been in the past.

People simply did not like Sherlock.

He had learned to accept his solitude, and despite how damaged he was inside, had managed to make a fairly decent life for himself.

But, then John had made his debut into his life, slowly changing everything.

He was happier than he had ever been, and he wasn’t about to allow his mother to tarnish his good feelings.

Those days were long gone, and he wouldn’t hesitate to inform her of such.

 

 

Mrs. Holmes stood there, considering her son’s words. She watched him, feeling her dislike for her son course through her.

Why couldn’t he have been more like his brother?

On top of everything, her sons had a petty sort of feud going, making her even more miserable.

“One of my closest friends has just died, and you’re going to treat me in this outrageous manner?” She asked, crossing her arms. “I hadn’t expected this even of you, Sherlock.”

In the past, Sherlock had never stood up to her like this, and it was angering her. 

How dare he be so disrespectful?

She wanted to strike his face repeatedly, hurt him, make him sorry for every time that he’d upset her.

For every time that he’d let her down, embarrassed her, been an inconvenience.

For ever being born.

 

 

Mrs. Holmes had never wanted to have children in the first place, and when she had learned of her second pregnancy, she had become terribly depressed.

After Sherlock’s birth, she’d had the servants care for him, often not seeing her son for days.

And yet, somehow, she had loved her first son as she’d never loved Sherlock.

Mrs. Holmes had often found herself regretting Sherlock’s birth.

How much easier her life would have been if she’d only had Mycroft…

 

Sherlock looked at her balled up fists, her anger so strong he could almost taste it.

She stared fiercely at her son, hating him more than she ever had.

Coming here was a mistake, one that needed fixing.

She turned on her heel, and stomped back to her room, shutting the door behind her.

 

 

Later that afternoon, Greg and Mycroft strolled through the grounds, songbirds merrily chirping away in the nearby trees.

Greg was thinking about John’s reaction to seeing him in the dining room.

It had been obvious that John hadn’t expected to see him during his stay.

Greg wondered why Mycroft hadn’t warned John beforehand, and asked about it.

Mycroft stopped and sat down beneath the canopy of a particularly large tree.

“I didn’t feel that it would be something that he needed to be warned of.” Mycroft said.

“It shouldn’t be such an important matter to him; it doesn’t involve John in the least.”

Greg shrugged. “Well, no, but he seemed pretty uncomfortable once he figured it out.” He replied, sitting down next to Mycroft and leaning his head on his shoulder.

“That’s not our problem.” Mycroft told him. “After all, he shouldn’t be here in the first place.”

Greg knew that Mycroft was a stubborn man, and could be less than considerate at times.

“Okay, but still…” Greg said, lying down and putting his head in Mycroft’s lap, looking up at him. 

Mycroft gave him a small smile.

He didn’t understand why Greg should be so concerned about how John felt. 

He was always so conscious of other’s feelings, so considerate when it came to everyone else.

Mycroft weaved his fingers through Greg’s short hair.

This was exactly why people so often took advantage of Greg, because he was a kind man.

“All right.” Mycroft said gently. “I shall try to make it up to him. Will that please you?”

Greg shrugged. “It’s not about me, really. But, I think that John would appreciate it.” He answered.

Mycroft frowned.

The only reason that he was willing to make such an effort was to make Greg happy.

Greg sighed.

“Mycroft, for such a brilliant man, you can really be so oblivious to some things…” He said with a smile.

Mycroft plucked a strand of grass from the ground, toying with it.

“Not even I am perfect, Greg.” He said, tearing the piece of grass into shreds.

Greg turned his head and kissed Mycroft’s cheek.

“To me you are.” He corrected, earning himself an affectionate look from Mycroft.

“Oh, my dear.” Mycroft began. “I think perhaps you’re flattering me just a bit much.”

As they looked into one another’s eyes, they felt the love that was deepening between them indescribably.

 

 

Having become rather bored, John decided to take a walk. 

Being outside of the city, there wasn’t terribly much to do.

While it was the scenery was quite pretty, and the air was cleaner, John couldn’t imagine ever living in the country long-term, even if it was near the city.

He enjoyed being able to walk out the front door to be greeted by the hustle and bustle, to get lost in the crowds, to just listen to the sounds of the city.

The country was much too quiet and peaceful for his liking.

He took a deep breath, and continued down the gravel path that led who knows where.

As he meandered along, he wondered what Sherlock was doing.

He sighed, wanting nothing more than to be able to curl up in bed with the man that he loved, and just lie there, safe and warm.

It was only two short days, forty-eight hours.

Nothing, really, when it came right down to it.

And yet, in this moment, it felt like far longer.

During his walk, he came across a fenced field that was empty but for a single donkey.

John stopped on the path, just looking at the animal.

The donkey watched him in return, looking bored out of it’s mind.

John slowly approached it, gently reaching out to pat it’s forehead.

The creature blinked it’s soft brown eyes, stepping closer, leaning it’s head over the fencing to allow John more access.

“Well, aren’t you sociable.” John said in a calm tone, petting it’s muzzle.

The donkey rested it’s head on John’s shoulder, as a young girl rushed through the field.

She was not pleased to see John touching the animal.

“What are you doing to Harold?” The girl asked protectively.

She couldn’t have been more than eight years old.

“Oh, is that his name?” John asked, petting the donkey’s neck.

The girl frowned at him, unsure of the stranger.

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to hurt him.” John told her in a friendly tone, trying to move away from the animal.

Harold, however, had other ideas and did his best to keep John from moving away.

“He never lets anyone touch him, except me…” The girl said, looking at John suspiciously.

“Well, he certainly likes me well enough.” John stated. 

He wasn’t the sort of person who generally liked animals all that much, but for whatever reason, he didn’t mind the donkey at all.

“I guess you’re okay, then.” The girl said. “Harold wouldn’t like you otherwise, I don’t think.”

She began petting the donkey. “I’m Nate.” She told him. “What’s your name?”

John put his hands in his pockets. “You really shouldn’t go about telling strangers what your name is.” He chided kindly. “And, my name’s John.”

Nate nodded. “Cool.” She said, picking at some chaff in the donkey’s hair.

“So, where do you live?” The girl asked curiously.

John shuffled his feet. He wasn’t really in the mood for a conversation, but decided to stick around for a few more minutes and be polite to the child.

“London, actually.” He answered, looking in the direction of the city.

“What are you doing here, then?” Nate inquired.

“Oh, just visiting someone.” He replied, thinking that maybe he should be getting back.

John glanced at his wrist watch. 4:30.

He’d been walking for a good two hours now, and he was beginning to feel a little tired.

“Well, it’s been nice chatting with you, but I’d best be off.” John told the girl. “Remember what I said about giving your name out, eh?”

Nate nodded, and John began heading back to Mycroft’s estate.

 

 

Mrs. Holmes decided to leave Baker Street, and stay with Mycroft whether or not he liked it.

After all, she was his mother, didn’t he owe her that much?

She opened the door to her bedroom, and took up her suitcase.

“I’m leaving.” She told Sherlock in an icy tone.

Sherlock glanced over at her from where he stood in the kitchen, still dissecting the brain.

“Oh.” He said uncaringly. “Where to?”

Mrs. Homes slipped her shoes on.

“Where I won’t be treated like some sort of wretch.” She said overdramatically.

“To my good son’s home, where I will be welcome.”

Sherlock opened his mouth.

“Oh, are you actually going to try and convince me to stay?” Mrs. Holmes asked incredulously.

“Not at all.” Sherlock answered. “I was merely going to point out that had you been welcome there, then you wouldn’t have had to barge into my flat and make a nuisance of yourself.”

Mrs. Holmes barely managed to keep her hands to herself at this.

“Good-bye.” She told him, whipping around and leaving the flat in a huff.

Sherlock reached into his pocket, taking his mobile out and texting Mycroft to keep him abreast of the situation’s turn of events.

Then, he texted John, telling him that he could come home.

 

Mycroft frowned at his phone, not happy with the information that he’d just received.

“My mother is on her way over…” Mycroft began, going a bit pale.

Greg sat up.

Mycroft had told him of his mother’s homophobia, and how she would likely react should she find out about their love.

He swallowed hard.

“I’ll just stay somewhere else until she’s gone.” Greg told Mycroft, putting a hand on his shoulder.

Mycroft sighed.

He hated the idea of keeping Greg a secret, and while he didn’t go around broadcasting their relationship, he didn’t exactly hide it.

Mycroft could care less what other people thought about who he spent his personal time with.

Sherlock and his mother were the only people that he’d kept Greg secret from, for separate reasons.

The first one being that Mrs. Holmes would not take it well at all.

The other reason being that he didn’t want Greg to be embarrassed at John and Sherlock knowing.

Mycroft had made it a point to try and keep their relationship quiet when it came to Greg’s work.

He could appreciate that Greg wasn’t comfortable with his co-workers and higher ups knowing his orientation.

Mycroft didn’t have to deal with that sort of thing.

Many of the people he worked with had a good idea that he enjoyed the company of other men, and were respectful.

He’d never had any sort of issue when it came to his work.

However, he knew the sort of people that Greg had to deal with while on duty.

 

 

“No, Greg. You don’t have to leave.” Mycroft decided. “I promise you, should she do anything to bother you, she will be leaving immediately.”

Greg widened his eyes. “I don’t want to end up messing things up between you and your family…” He said quickly.

Mycroft brushed Greg’s soft cheek with his hand.

“It’s time she found out who I really am.” Mycroft told him quietly. “I’ve hidden it from her for so many years.”

Mycroft drew a deep breath.

“And, if she cannot accept me for who I really am, then that becomes her problem.” He finished firmly.

Greg knew how it felt to keep such a secret, and sympathised.

He wished that he was brave enough to show the entire world who he really was.

But, especially after all of the hate crimes committed against the GLBT community, he had a very valid reason to hide away.

Mycroft smiled at him a touch sadly.

“But, should you not be ready for such a confrontation, I’ll understand.” He said.

“I would never do anything to purposely make you uncomfortable.” Mycroft stood up, brushing the grass and dirt from his trousers.

Greg got to his feet, reaching out for Mycroft’s hand.

“If this is something that you’re ready for, then I will be there at your side.” Greg stated determinedly.

Mycroft gave Greg’s hand a little squeeze, and they headed back to the house to wait for Mrs. Holmes.

 

Sherlock’s text had made him wonder just what had happened.

An argument, most likely.

He hoped that Sherlock was all right.

The briefness of the text message was what made John worry.

Sherlock rarely sent short messages like that unless something was up.

He knew that he shouldn’t have left, should have stayed with Sherlock despite the protests.

It was too late now of course.

He made it back to the house in good time, and went to find Mycroft.

He found both Mycroft and Greg just inside the house.

Apparently, they too, had been out.

“Sherlock has educated you as to the state of affairs?” Mycroft asked as John closed the door.

John shook his head.

“Only that I can come home.” He answered.

Mycroft nodded.

“Yes, I shall have a car ready for you. I expect that you’ll want to leave as soon as possible?” Mycroft asked tiredly.

John supposed that he ought to get out of Mycroft’s hair.

“Well, I should probably go…” John said, noting the stressed look on Greg’s face.

“She’s coming here, isn’t she?” John asked.

Mycroft affirmed this.

John looked apologetic.

“It’s too bad that your mother is so closed-minded.” John said. “I hope that things will work out.”

Mycroft blinked at this. “Thank-you, John.” He said, meaning the words completely.

“And, by the way, I think that the two of you make a good couple.” John added. “Hope you don’t mind my saying so…”

Greg blushed, and Mycroft half-smiled.

John held up a hand. 

“Don’t worry, I’m not going to tell anyone.” John said, expecting to hear something about keeping the information to himself.

Mycroft nodded. “We appreciate that, John.” He said.

“Now, Mummy could be arriving any time.” Mycroft reminded. “Whenever you are ready to leave, a car will be waiting for you, John.”

John gave a nod, and went to get his bags.

When he came back downstairs, there was indeed a car waiting for him.

As he walked to the vehicle, he could hear Mycroft say good-bye.

John looked back in surprise.

Mycroft was being a good deal friendlier than he was used to.

John waved at him, and then got into the car after putting his bags in the trunk.

Mycroft watched as the car drove away, feeling some stress as he thought of what was ahead.

 

 

Sherlock waited for John to return a little impatiently.

His mother had left him in a bad mood, and he needed John to come home so that he could cheer him up.

John always could make him feel better.

Even when his thoughts were racing out of control, burning him out, John was somehow able to quiet them enough so that he could breathe again.

He drummed his fingers on his leg, as he lay on the sofa.

He couldn’t concentrate on his experiment after being agitated to that degree.

Sherlock was frustrated that he’d allowed his mother to get to him.

He was out of practice in putting up that wall against her, shutting out the abuse.

He sighed, trying to calm his raging thoughts, waiting for John to come back.

 

 

The drive home seemed to take longer than the hour and ten minutes that it had lasted, and John was getting tired.

Since he’d woken up, quite a lot had happened. It was nearing six o’clock, though it felt much later.

It had been a very long day.

Eventually, the car found it’s way to Baker Street, parking in front of 221.

John got out of the car, thanked the driver, and took his bags.

He hauled them up to the flat and unlocked the door.

John found Sherlock curled up on the sofa, back to the room, looking perfectly miserable.

“Sherlock…” John said softly.

Sherlock sat up, looking at John tiredly.

John joined him on the sofa, putting his arms around the slender man.

Sherlock leaned his head on John’s shoulder, saying nothing.

Whatever had happened, it hadn’t been good.

“John, tell me that you love me.” Sherlock told him in hushed tones.

John kissed his forehead.

“I love you, Sherlock.” John murmered.

“Come on, let’s go lie down.” He suggested, giving Sherlock an encouraging look.

Sherlock sighed and stood up, slumping a bit as he walked to the bedroom.

He lay on the bed heavily, and John cuddled up to him.

Sherlock nuzzled into John’s body, needing him to be close.

John held him, playing with his curls in the way that always relaxed him.

As Sherlock closed his eyes, beginning to doze, John continued to tell him in a soft whisper all the ways that he loved him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, I know this chapter does drag a bit... I promise to try and kick it up a notch in the next one!


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock was awakened at 7:26 pm by his mobile’s text alert sounding.

He rolled over, picking his phone up from the bedside table.

‘There’s been an incident, and Mummy is in critical condition. – MH’

Sherlock stared at the text, wondering what it was that had happened.

‘What sort of incident? – SH' He returned.

A few minutes later came Mycroft’s reply.

‘A violent attack by a mugger. – MH'

Sherlock knew that he ought to feel bad for the woman, and yet, he just didn’t.

‘That is unfortunate. – SH’

Sherlock sent back, as John stirred in his sleep.

‘The doctors aren’t holding much hope for her survival. You should come. St. Bartholomew’s ICU. – MH’

It seemed to Sherlock as though it were his duty as a son to at least do that much, if nothing else.

Sherlock sat there in bed, staring at the screen.

‘Sherlock?’ Mycroft prompted.

‘Yes, I will come. – SH’ Sherlock responded, almost regretting the decision.

After all, what had his mother ever really done for him, other than bring him into this world?

She had never been a loving, understanding, patient or especially kind mother.

"John.” Sherlock whispered, gently touching his arm.

John mumbled in his sleep, opening his eyes slightly.

“What is it, Sherlock?’ He asked sleepily.

“My mother is in the hospital in critical condition, and I told Mycroft that I would meet him at the hospital.” Sherlock explained.

John blinked sleepily. “Did you want me to come with you?” He asked, wanting to be supportive.

“No, you’ve done enough. I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving and don’t know what time I’ll be back.” Sherlock answered.

John wished that Sherlock had written a simple note like anybody else would.

He was dog-tired, having slept very little the night before and having been put through such stress had left him exhausted.

John yawed widely.

“Okay, Sherlock.” He said, letting his eyes close.

“Just call if you change your mind.” He added thickly.

Sherlock put a hand to John’s cheek, smiling softly.

He wondered where he would be without John, feeling very glad to have someone so good in his life.

“Yes, John, I will.” He said, as John began to fall back to sleep.

Sherlock got dressed, and left the flat quietly.

He hailed a cab, and reached the hospital within thirty minutes.

 

 

Sherlock approached the ICU triage desk, where he found out which room his mother was staying in.

Mrs. Holmes was currently undergoing massive surgery, as her heart had been badly damaged during the stabbing.

Multiple deep wounds to the pericardium had been inflicted, and the left ventricle of her heart had been severed.

There were also stab wounds along her torso, which went quite deep. 

She'd lost a great deal of blood, and the doctors had been surprised that she was still alive.

There had been a blow to the back of her head, which had split the skin a small ways.

Sherlock was shown to a private waiting area, where Mycroft was sitting and doing his best to absorb himself in a book that he’d brought with him.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft acknowledged his presence.

“I wasn’t entirely confident that you would indeed show.” He said in a quiet voice.

Sherlock sat down in one of the uncomfortable hospital chairs.

“What exactly happened?” Sherlock asked curiously.

Mycroft drew in a deep breath.

“The two witnesses have said that Mummy was walking along the sidewalk and had just begun to hail a cab, when she was confronted by a tall, muscular man with an orange bandanna obscuring his face.” He began.

“He demanded her jewellery and her purse, and she flatly refused. The brute tore her purse from her grip, and she reached out and slapped him. In turn, he shoved her forcefully against the brick wall of a building, smashing her head against it.” Mycroft looked very grim as he continued.

“Then the bastard brandished a hunting knife and stabbed her repeatedly in the chest and abdomen. He’s in custody, thankfully.” Mycroft finished, as Sherlock sat there listening. "It would seem that he was under the influence of the drug known as methamphetamine."

“I can’t help but think that things would have turned out much differently had she just given the man what he’d demanded. But, you know what Mummy’s like… She doesn’t take orders from anybody,” Mycroft said.

Sherlock nodded.

It didn’t make sense to him that anyone would risk their life for material goods.

Especially when such things can so often be easily replaced.

 

 

The surgeons toiled skillfully away on Mrs. Holmes’ heart and the wounds along her abdomen, repairing as much damage as was possible.

However, three hours into the surgery, her heart simply gave out.

There was just far too much injury to the heart.

 

 

As the brothers were informed of their mother’s passing, there was complete silence from them both.

Sherlock was more or less indifferent, and felt guilty for it.

Mycroft, though he was internalising it all, was feeling things quite deeply.

“I want to see her.” He said as calmly as he could, gathering all the composure that he had.

The doctor nodded.

“If you’ll follow me.” He said.

 

Sherlock decided to go along, more to be there for his brother than anything.

It just seemed like what he was supposed to do.

As they entered the room where their mother’s body was, Mycroft slumped over to it with unblinking eyes.

A few tears slipped down his pale cheeks, as Sherlock stood by his side.

“I should have let her stay.” He said, his voice nearly a whisper.

“Or you should have done a better job of making Mummy’s stay pleasant, and then this never would have happened.” He continued, not knowing who to blame.

Sherlock looked down at his mother’s dead body.

Her eyes were closed, and her skin was already going very pale from the blood beginning to settle to the back of her body.

There were traces of dry blood just above the sheet on her chest from the incisions.

“No, Mycroft.” Sherlock said. “We both know that the only person to blame is the criminal that committed the crime against her.”

Mycroft didn’t look away from the body.

He was a mess inside, and Sherlock knew it.

“Come on,” Sherlock encouraged his brother gently. “We should go.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, and nodded sombrely.

The brothers turned away from the sight of their mother, and exited the room, the doctor that had brought them there looking on.

 

 

“I’ll take you home to your flat.” Mycroft told Sherlock, as he texted his driver, who promptly began the trip to the hospital.

Sherlock couldn’t believe his own words, as he offered his brother company for the next few days.

“You shouldn’t be alone.” He said, seeing the signs of deep depression beginning in his brother.

“I appreciate the offer, Sherlock, but I won’t be alone.” He said.

Sherlock sighed.

“Your servants hardly count. They won’t give you the support that you are so obviously needing right now.” He said, evoking a glare from his brother.

Did Sherlock think him to be that pathetic, that he couldn’t handle this on his own?

“I know what I need, Sherlock. And, I already have it.” He stated firmly, thinking of Greg.

Greg, who would undoubtedly comfort him.

Greg, who knew him in ways that nobody else and was far superior in understanding what he needed.

Mycroft sighed.

“I shall be fine, Sherlock.” He said, looking into his younger sibling’s eyes.

Sherlock reached out, and put a hand on Mycroft’s shoulder.

Mycroft actually smiled softly at this. 

This was quite a display from the brothers.

They’d been relatively close as children, despite how differently they had been treated.

But, as the years went on, they grew apart.

This was the first time in decades that either brother had shown such affection.

Perhaps they could become close once more.

 

 

Once Sherlock had returned home, it was a little after two o’clock in the morning.

John hadn’t been able to fall asleep, worrying about Sherlock.

He was sitting in bed reading, when Sherlock walked slowly into the bedroom.

John set the book down, turning his focus to the love of his life.

Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed, his back to John, who scooted over.

John put his arms around Sherlock, holding him.

“She’s dead, John.” Sherlock said tonelessly.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock…” John apologised. “Are you all right?”

John gazed at him in concern, his forehead wrinkling.

Sherlock considered this before answering.

“I don’t know.” He said, looking somewhat lost.

John gave him a squeeze.

“I’m… Slightly sad that she’s gone, as I had somehow thought that perhaps someday she would accept me as her son.” Sherlock started. 

“But then, I find myself not caring, because I never really knew the woman. She shut me out.” He gestured with his hands in a helpless sort of way.

“What am I supposed to be feeling, John?” Sherlock looked at John, his brows coming together and creasing his smooth skin, his face fixed in an expression of confusion.

John wanted to be able to tell Sherlock something that would make it all okay, to take any unpleasantness from him.

Of course, this was simply not possible.

“I don’t know, love… I really don’t know.” He answered gently.

“What I do know is that you should take it easy for the next while. Just let me take care of you for once.” John said, getting off the bed to remove Sherlock’s footwear.

Sherlock didn’t argue.

“If that will content you, John, then I will submit.” He answered resignedly.

Sherlock was never this agreeable to much of anything. John frowned.

This wasn’t like Sherlock at all.

The death of his mother had affected him more than he would have guessed, considering the relationship that they'd had.

Sherlock stood up, and began to undress for bed.

He was tired, and he never could sleep well when clothed.

He slipped beneath the covers, and John brought him close.

Sherlock leaned his head against John, an ear to his chest, listening to the rhythmic beating of his heart.

He soon drifted to sleep.

 

The next morning, John made him a delicious breakfast, which he didn’t eat very much of.

“Sherlock, you need to eat.” John pressed, pouring them each a glass of water and setting the vessels down on the table.

Sherlock gave him a stubborn look.

“You know very well that my eating habits are not like your own, John. I eat when I’m hungry, and while that isn’t as often as you’d like, it’s good enough.” He said crankily.

John knew better than to push things, and let it go.

Sherlock sighed and began to drift into his thoughts.

“How are you feeling, Sherlock?” John asked.

He had been working with Sherlock for years in order to come to terms with his feelings instead of shoving them deep down and ignoring them.

And, while Sherlock had improved, he would only allow himself to show and feel things clearly with John.

But, right now, he was numbing his emotions.

“It doesn’t matter, John. I’m fine.” Sherlock said.

John crossed his arms.

“I know that you’re not, Sherlock.” He disagreed.

Sherlock frowned at him.

“What do you want me to say, John? That I’m deeply distraught?” Sherlock asked in annoyance.

“Because that simply isn’t what I’m feeling. I feel… Nothing, for the most part.”

John gave Sherlock a look.

“And isn’t that the point?” John asked. “That’s why you feel bad, isn’t it?”

Sherlock hadn’t thought about this, not wanting to focus on what he felt.

But, now that he considered it, he supposed John was correct.

“That was very perceptive, John.” Sherlock said, his tone softer than before.

John reached out, putting a hand over Sherlock’s, which was resting on the table.

“It’s okay to be overwhelmed by someone’s death.” John said. “And, it’s equally okay not to be. With what you went through, it’s understandable that you aren’t grieving as much as other people might.”

John paused.

“But, you don’t need to feel bad about a lack of grief.” He finished.

Sherlock knew that John was right in saying this.

“Just, whatever you are feeling, don’t shove it down to fester.” John said. “I don’t want you to become bitter.”

Sherlock gave a small smile.

“I will take it under advisement.” He responded.

“Good." John said. 

 

 

After breakfast, John received a text from Melissa, who was about to leave for the doctor’s office.

“Oh, shit.” He swore, Sherlock looking over at him.

“What is it?” He asked, glad to have a distraction.

John looked up from his mobile.

“We never really talked about who was going to be the birth father, and Melissa’s appointment is in an hour.” John said. “With everything that’s been going on, we ended up forgetting about today.” He sounded miserable.

Sherlock shrugged.

“So, we both attend the appointment and provide our specimens.” Sherlock said. “They can be mixed together and that way, we don’t have to choose.”

John nodded, liking the sound of this.

The thought of their semen mixing together was a major turn on.

He cleared his throat, as he felt his cock awakening.

“Right, that’s not a bad idea.” He said, agreeing.

“We’ll have to leave right away, though, so we should get ready.” John said.

Sherlock noticed the stir in John’s pants, and gave a smug little grin.

They put their shoes on, and left to catch a cab.

 

 

They barely made it to the appointment on time, what with traffic being so slow.

They didn’t need to wait, and were shown into the examination room where Melissa sat on the medical table in a cloth dressing gown.

She waved at them.

“Hey.” She said, looking slightly nervous.

“Hello.” John said, hoping that the doctor wouldn’t be long.

Sherlock inclined his head in her direction, and was silent.

 

 

The doctor arrived a few minutes later, and briefed them all on what was about to take place, before asking who would be providing the sperm.

John answered the doctor, who hadn’t come across a situation quite like this one.

“All right, then.” He said, before having a nurse come in to show them to separate rooms across from each other.

The rooms were devoid of any sort of comfort, and were very cold, white, and medical.

Nothing to help the process whatsoever, not even a magazine.

Just as John had unbuckled his belt, he heard a knock at the door.

He made his way over to the door and opened it a crack.

It was Sherlock.

He opened the door wider, and Sherlock stepped in.

“What is it?” John asked, wondering if Sherlock had changed his mind.

“I need stimulation.” Sherlock explained, stepping closer to John.

“We could get in trouble for this…” John started before Sherlock cut him off with a kiss, melting away any sort of apprehension that he’d had.

He deepened the kiss, as Sherlock’s hands cupped John's growing erection.

John gasped into his mouth, as Sherlock’s hands slipped into his pants, groping him fervently.

Sherlock ended the kiss, trailing his tongue along John’s neck, nipping at his shoulder.

He turned off the light, enveloping them in pitch blackness, then knelt in front of John on the cold, hard floor.

He grabbed a handful of John’s arse, giving it a firm squeeze, pulling the pants and trousers down and gulping down John’s cock.

John groaned, as Sherlock gently scraped his teeth along John's full length as he pulled up for air.

Sherlock sucked at the tip, working the rest of John’s solid cock with his hand.

It didn’t take long for John to tell him to stop.

Sherlock flicked the light switch on, and grabbed the plastic cup.

He positioned the cup, as John stroked himself.

Sherlock managed to catch all of the sperm, as it burst forth in hot, white streams.

He capped the specimen cup, and set it carefully on a shelf.

John sat down, panting slightly.

 

Sherlock sat down beside him, slid down his trousers and pulled out his cock, opening the packet of lubricant that had been provided.

John took the packet from him, and slicked his hand with it.

He grasped Sherlock’s dick, and began to slowly stroke until he was achingly hard.

John quickened his pace, being slightly rough, as Sherlock tended to enjoy that method.

When Sherlock made that familiar noise that John adored to no end, he stopped and opened the second cup, getting ready to collect the sample.

Once he was prepared, John began to rub Sherlock’s bollocks, rolling them around with his fingers.

Sherlock bit his lip and closed his eyes as he came, softly moaning as John carefully made certain not to waste any semen by missing it with the cup.

When it was over, John leaned in and planted a slightly sloppy kiss on Sherlock’s pretty mouth.

Sherlock stood, doing up his trousers, and left with his cup.

John watched his arse as he left the room, then straightened himself up and left his container with the nurse.

 

 

It didn’t take long for the process to be completed, and after forty-five minutes, Melissa was ready to leave.

“Can I pay for your cab or anything?” John asked kindly.

Melissa shook her head. 

“No, that’s all right, really. Thanks anyway.” She said, shifting her purse.

“Right, then… Well, we’ll be in touch.” John said, before they said good-bye and parted ways.

 

 

On the way back home, John couldn’t stop thinking about what had just happened.

It was all so exciting!

They were actually making a baby...

John grinned happily to himself, and Sherlock found John’s mood to be infective.

He found his lethargy fading, and began to feel a little better.

He still felt guilty about not being in mourning, but at the same time, something so wonderful was happening and it managed to overshadow everything else for the moment.

Sherlock grabbed John’s hand, and looked out the window, watching as the London scenery flew past.

 

 

When Mycroft returned home much later that day, he was terribly drunk.

He was not one to drown his sorrows with chemicals, but this time, he found himself gravitating towards liquor.

As he approached Greg, the scent of alcohol was quite strong.

In all the time that they had been together, Greg had never before seen Mycroft inebriated and it was a little unsettling.

Mycroft was entirely different as he stood before him.

He had kept Greg informed of what had happened, and while Greg had wanted to come to him at the hospital, Mycroft had been adamant that he stay away.

Mycroft swayed on the spot, using his umbrella to help steady himself.

“Why don’t you sit down?” Greg asked gently.

Mycroft was very quiet, and sat down on the floor looking incredibly weary.

Greg hated the sight of Mycroft so helpless.

He sat down on the floor beside him, and leaned against the wall.

“I’m so sorry, My.” Greg told him gingerly, wanting to take Mycroft into his arms and comfort him.

But, he knew that he wouldn’t be permitted to do that, and so he just stayed close.

“It’s my fault.” Mycroft said miserably.

Greg shook his head.

“Don’t talk that way, Mycroft.” Greg said. “Things like this just happen. Trust me, I’ve seen it hundreds of times.”

Mycroft heaved a heavy sigh, and leaned against the wall, closing his eyes.

He was very intoxicated, and began to fall asleep.

“My, let’s go to bed.” Greg said soothingly.

Mycroft didn’t budge, ignoring him.

Greg gazed at him sadly, and got up to get a blanket.

He sat back down, draping the blanket over them both, and sat there thinking deeply as Mycroft began to snore.

 

 

As soon as John and Sherlock were inside, John mashed his lips to Sherlock’s.

He wasn’t sure what it was, but he was exceptionally horny.

He began to unbutton Sherlock’s shirt, fumbling with the buttons as he hurried.

Sherlock chuckled in that low rumble, exciting John further.

After John managed to pop a button right off, sending it flying somewhere in the den, Sherlock shooed his hands away and finished the job himself.

As John reached out to remove the shirt, Sherlock stepped backwards, avoiding the pawing hands.

Sherlock began to strip tease for him, as John watched closely.

He gracefully slipped the shirt off, tossing it into the air and letting it fall.

After undoing his trousers, he slid them down ever so slowly, revealing his bee patterned pants.

Sherlock wiggled his hips, turning around to let John see his firm arse.

He bent over, peeking at John through his legs.

John was getting impatient, and Sherlock loved it.

Sherlock straightened up, and fiddled with the waistband of the pants, making it seem like he was about to pull them down.

After a few moments, Sherlock lazily slipped them down, kicking them off, revealing his gorgeous cock.

Then, he turned and headed into the bedroom.

After all, the last time that they’d shagged in the den there had been an accident which still made Sherlock shudder.

Sherlock had been fucking John hard from behind, with John leaning against the back of a chair, when the furniture tipped over and sent John falling to the floor with Sherlock landing partially on top of him.

While John came out of the situation with only a bruised hip, poor Sherlock had sprained his manhood after having it bend in half as he crashed into the arm of the chair.

There had been a loud snapping sound, and Sherlock had been in intense pain.

Sherlock had to go to the hospital for treatment due to the severity of the injury, which had been surgery, and they’d not been able to make love for quite some time afterward.

 

 

John joined Sherlock in the bedroom, but not before quickly grabbing a can of whipped cream and some raspberry coulis that had been meant to be a part of that night’s dessert.

He found Sherlock lying provocatively on top of the bed, waiting for John.

Sherlock’s eyes widened in delight upon noticing what John had in his hands.

John set the items down on the bedside table, and dipped a finger into the small bowl of raspberry coulis.

He smeared it onto Sherlock’s lips before kissing and licking it off.

Sherlock opened his mouth taking in John’s tongue, sucking it briefly.

John pulled away, and submersed two fingers into the little bowl before drizzling Sherlock’s chest and abdomen with the ruby liquid.

He added a little extra to Sherlock's protruding nipples, sucking one off, before coating it for a second time.

John made a show of trailing his tongue along Sherlock’s alabaster skin, as Sherlock watched closely.

When every trace of the coulis had been removed, John reached for the whipped cream, shaking the can suggestively.

He popped the cap off, and applied some to the base of Sherlock’s rigid cock, then dripping the raspberry coulis down Sherlock’s length.

A few drops of coulis landed on Sherlock’s bollocks, which John promptly tasted.

As John began lazily lapping at the decadent treat that he’d created, Sherlock wriggled slightly, closing his mind to everything but John’s touch.

John’s dick pulsed with need, as he gave Sherlock pleasure.

As soon as he’d used his mouth to clean every last drop of whipped cream and coulis off of Sherlock’s skin, he grabbed the bottle of lube, and glazed his cock with it.

Sherlock brought his legs close to his chest, and John knelt before him, spreading Sherlock’s legs and lifting his pelvis.

Sherlock put a foot on each of John’s shoulders as he was slowly penetrated, his behind being lifted slightly higher as John slipped a pillow underneath Sherlock’s buttocks.

John held onto Sherlock’s thighs for stability, as John began to thrust.

John started out slow and shallow, gradually going swift and deeply, coaxing deliciously throaty moans from Sherlock.

“Mmmmmmph!” Sherlock groaned, as every muscle in his body began to tighten wonderfully.

He could feel John’s cock begin to spasm inside him, as he began to shudder in a powerful climax, crying out John’s name.

Sherlock gripped John’s thighs tightly, his fingers digging in a little too much for John's liking.

There would be bruises from his clutch later.

John thrust erratically as his orgasm grew intense, holding onto Sherlock’s arse.

Fuck… fuck, fuckfuckFUCK!” John cursed, sweat dripping into his eyes, panting heavily as he spilled the last of his load deep within Sherlock.

John leaned against Sherlock’s torso, still inside him as the pleasure began to subside.

Sherlock ran a hand through John’s hair.

“Where did you learn that?” Sherlock asked, thinking that they were going to have to try this again sometime soon.

John pulled out, lying next to Sherlock, still out of breath.

He wiped the sweat from his face.

“Oh, it’s just something that I read about somewhere.” John replied with a wave of his hand.

"What else have you read that I should know about?" Sherlock asked, only half joking.

John laughed.

"That's all I've got for now, I'm afraid." He replied, making a mental note to find more new positions for them to try.


	7. Chapter 7

Mycroft awoke hours later in bed. 

Greg had helped one of the servants move Mycroft into the bedroom.

Mycroft didn’t really recall what had happened after his last shot of whiskey, and hoped that he hadn’t made a fool of himself in front of Greg.

His head ached, and the light coming into the room through the closed curtains made his eyes burn.

He groaned, putting a hand to his face and trying to shut out the pain.

He had no idea of what time it was, though it felt as though it were around noon.

Mycroft opened one eye slightly to peek to his left, where Greg usually slept.

Of course, he wasn’t there.

Mycroft sighed, feeling wretched.

He supposed that he may as well get up, despite wanting to merely cover back up and return to sleep.

He stood up, the sudden movement causing a bout of dizziness.

He steadied himself, and managed to get dressed.

There was no way that he would be able to handle the bright daylight in his condition, and before exiting the bedroom, he put a pair of dark sunglasses on his face.

 

 

Mycroft slowly walked along the hall, down to the kitchen, heading to make himself a nice cup of tea to soothe his frazzled mind.

As he did, he came across James, who seemed quite concerned about his employer.

“Are you all right, Sir?” He asked in a worried tone.

“I’m quite all right, James.” Mycroft said, continuing on.

James nodded, not fully believing what he’d heard, but went back to polishing a small bronze lion that he’d been working on.

 

 

After making a cup of earl grey tea, Mycroft sat down in the den, where Greg was reading the paper.

Upon noticing Mycroft was up and about, he set the newspaper down on the coffee table.

“How are you doing?” Greg asked softly, folding his hands in his lap.

Mycroft sipped at his tea, breathing the comforting scent in.

“… I’m…” Mycroft began, attempting to discern exactly what it was that he was feeling.

There was so much going through his mind, so much emotion swimming through him, that it was very difficult to distinguish what he felt.

Mycroft, like his brother, preferred not to let emotions sway him. To not allow them to reign over his mind, complicating and confusing things.

But, with the death of his beloved mother, he simply found himself unable to keep his emotions at bay, and he was feeling things all too clearly.

Mycroft sighed.

“My heart is aching with what I would classify as sorrow.” Mycroft said, his voice a little deeper than usual. “And I am filled with regret for not allowing her to stay here, keeping her safe.”

Greg nodded.

“I know what it’s like to lose someone, Mycroft.” Greg admitted, never having told much of anyone about the loss that had shattered his heart completely.

Mycroft hadn’t known about this.

Greg had been so adept at hiding this one thing, that not even Mycroft had detected a hint of it.

“I know how hard it is. It’s going to take time before you begin to feel vaguely normal, and despite what some people claim, the pain never goes completely away.” Greg finished, blinking a little rapidly as he remembered the one that he’d lost.

Mycroft watched him, saw the glimmer of pain in Greg’s eyes.

Greg nodded.

“You know that I’m here for you, My, I’m always going to be.” Greg assured him. “So, whatever you need, I’ll do my best to help.”

Mycroft was touched.

“Who is it that you lost, Greg?” Mycroft asked softly. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to, of course.”

Greg cleared his throat.

It had been a while since he’d spoken about it, and he’d only ever told two other people.

Despite the four years that had gone by, it was still very difficult to speak of.

Greg shifted his gaze to the floor, finding the words.

“My little girl.” He said, blinking as he pictured her, remembering everything about the clever, beautiful, wonderful child that had been taken from him.

“Rebekkah. She was only six years old, and she had multiple cancerous tumours in her brain stem. ‘Diffuse intrinsic pontine glioma’ is what the doctors called it.”

Greg swallowed hard, remembering how much pain Rebekkah had been in towards the end.

He stopped, finding it too difficult to go on.

Rebekkah’s mother had found it very hard to watch her suffer, and Greg had been the one to take care of her during her illness.

It had been very traumatic for him, and he had sworn never to have another child.

 

 

Mycroft moved over beside Greg.

“So, I know what you’re feeling right now, believe me.” Greg said. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

Mycroft, while he hated that Greg knew this pain, he felt somehow comforted by this common ground.

Mycroft put an arm around Greg.

“We need to distract ourselves, I think.” Mycroft said.

There was nothing to be gained from grief, from sadness, and so he was determined to purge it from his system.

“What do you suggest?” Greg asked, wondering what Mycroft was thinking of.

“Why don’t we go for an outing?” Mycroft suggested. “Perhaps we could take in a show at the cinema.”

 

Greg nodded.

“Yeah, that sounds good to me.” He said.

“What sort of films do you like to watch, anyway?” Greg asked with a slight frown.

He and Mycroft hadn’t watched much of anything together, only seeing two or three movies which they’d missed most of due to sexual distraction.

Mycroft didn’t watch much of anything at all, much preferring to read instead.

“A good comedy is always pleasant, however it is not easy to find one.” Mycroft answered.

Greg agreed.

“Fair enough.” He said.

Mycroft stood up, his head still aching dully.

“Are you sure that you want to go out feeling like that?” Greg asked uncertainly.

“I need to.” Mycroft answered. “Unless I keep myself distracted, I shall fall victim to depression.”

Greg bit his lip.

“You need to let yourself mourn.” Greg told him. “You can’t just pretend it’s not there, because it’s not going to simply go away. You've got to acknowledge it, let it run it's course.”

Greg kissed Mycroft’s cheek.

“Let yourself grieve, Mycroft. It’s not weakness, you know.” He added, noting the look on Mycroft’s face.

Mycroft didn’t agree with Greg on this, though he didn’t say so.

Grief, depression, and such other things were weakness of the mind in his opinion.

And to be feeling this way was to be weak-minded, something that he could not stomach in the least.

Mycroft merely nodded, indulging Greg.

“Come on, let’s get ready to go.” Greg told him in a cheerier tone, heading to the front door.

Mycroft rang the bell for James, and requested that a car be prepared.

 

 

Sherlock tidied the flat a bit, keeping himself busy, as John went out to pick up some rice for their dinner.

John was planning to make Chinese fried rice for Sherlock, to help pick his spirits up a little.

While at the market, he decided to pick up another can of whipped cream, seeing as how they were now completely out.

He grinned, recalling the day’s earlier activities.

The check-out queues were atrociously long, although the lines at the self-serve machines were remarkably shorter.

John recalled the last time he’d used one, and the frustration that had ensued.

It was a small wonder that more people preferred the clerks to the pin and chip machines.

However, he didn’t want to stand around for the next half hour to pay for his groceries, and so he decided to give the self check-out one more try.

Of course, it had been equally as tedious this time round, and he vowed never to bother with them again.

John considered them to be a massive pain in the arse that the world could easily do without.

 

 

As he started back, he blew out a breath, shaking his head in annoyance.

Partway home, he walked past an adult store.

A wonderfully naughty idea crept into his mind as he double-backed and headed into the shoppe.

He and Sherlock liked to try new things, and since Sherlock had been changing things up in the bedroom more than usual recently, John decided to bring something new into their sex lives.

They had tried a toy or two in the past, though Sherlock had gotten annoyed with them and stated in aggravation that they ‘Got in the way’ and so that little experiment had been thrown out the window.

Literally.

Sherlock, during one particularly frenzied session, found the vibrating wand that John was using along his own cock so distracting that he took it out of John's hand, pulled himself out, and threw it forcefully out of the window and into traffic.

John had heard honking as it hit someone’s windshield.

Sherlock had ducked back in so quickly to resume their lovemaking, that nobody had seen him.

John had been torn between amusement and mortification.

 

 

As he perused the shelves of numerous varieties of sexual aids, he tried to find one that wouldn’t be too intrusive or boring for Sherlock.

He took a light-up, vibrating cock ring from a clip strip hanging from a shelf and considered it.

He shrugged, and put it into the basket that he’d taken from the front.

He noticed some handcuffs.

‘Now those might come in handy.’ John thought as he popped those into the basket as well.

His eyes widened quite a bit as he walked past a line-up of various equine dildos.

He wasn’t sure what to think of those at all.

He shook his head, and carried on.

He looked around a bit more before settling on one particular item that caught his eye.

A sex swing that would hang from the ceiling.

John was pretty certain that not even Sherlock would become bored with this, at least not easily.

He headed to the till, grabbing a bottle of peppermint flavoured lube before paying.

There was no way that John would be able to drag the swing home with him on foot, and the packaging was less than discreet, so he opted to have it delivered along with the rest of his purchases.

After learning that they would be dropped off at the flat during the evening, he resumed his trip home.

 

 

It had been an uneventful ride into London.

As they stood looking at the film posters at the cinema in Leicester Square, Greg waited for Mycroft to say whether anything looked particularly good to him.

Mycroft supposed that the latest Star Trek film looked as though it would be interesting.

As Greg took a closer look at the poster, Greg chuckled slightly to himself.

“What is it?” Mycroft asked, as Greg covered his mouth.

“Nothing.” He lied.

Mycroft tipped his head. 

“Come now, Greg…” Mycroft said, not up to deducing what it was that was Greg had been snickering about.

Greg gave him an amused look.

“It’s really nothing, just that…” Greg said, looking back to the poster, which depicted a man glaring at them as his long black coat billowed out behind him.

“Well, the guy on the poster looks just a bit like Sherlock, don’t you think?” Greg asked, seeing quite a lot of resemblance.

Mycroft considered the image.

“No, Greg.” Mycroft answered. “I can’t see what you’re going on about in the least.”

Greg frowned.

“You really don’t see it?” Greg asked in surprise.

Mycroft shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Greg, but I don’t see any resemblance whatsoever.” He said.

Greg shrugged.

“Ah, well. I guess it’s just me, then.” He grinned.

They turned and went to buy the tickets, before going to the appropriate auditorium.

It had been many years since Mycroft had been in a public cinema, and he found himself recalling a little fact about the amount of filth and spillage that accumulated in one of these places within just a week.

Including urine, vomit, sperm and blood.

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in disgust at the thought, wondering if they should bother staying.

But then, he looked at Greg’s face.

Greg was genuinely pleased to be watching a movie with him, and Mycroft had suggested the idea in the first place.

He couldn’t back out now.

Greg chose seats in the very back and closest to the aisle for privacy.

“Hold on, I’ll be right back.” Greg told him, as a particularly obnoxious advert began to play.

Mycroft nodded, and sneered at the screen as he was told about some brand of cleaning agent by a blonde man with an atrociously nasal voice.

Greg returned a few minutes later, just as the film began to play, with a big bag of hot buttered popcorn and a soda for each of them.

Greg smiled at him as he sat down beside him, tossing a piece of popcorn into his mouth.

Mycroft felt his mood lighten a touch as Greg reached for his hand, and held it throughout the full movie.

 

 

When John returned home, Sherlock had just finished hoovering.

As Sherlock put away the device, John put the groceries away.

He’d have to start dinner soon.

“You look rather smug, John.” Sherlock pointed out, smoothing an unruly piece of John’s hair down.

“Do I?” John asked, trying to clear his face of any such smugness and failing.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, and began trying to deduce just what it was that John had been up to.

“Hey, stop doing that!” John exclaimed, looking away from Sherlock.

What was being delivered later was to be a surprise, and he wouldn’t have Sherlock figuring it out ahead of time.

“Out of the kitchen, I’ve got to start dinner.” John said, facing the wall.

Sherlock was amused at this.

“Yes, Captain.” Sherlock said saucily, using John’s military rank.

John grinned at this, as Sherlock stepped out of the kitchen, allowing him to begin meal preparation.

He quickly sliced the vegetables as the rice cooked, and after that was done, he took two eggs from the refrigerator.

John poured some oil into a skillet, heating it before scooping the rice into the pan along with the vegetables.

He added some soya sauce and spices, letting it all cook.

 

 

“Sherlock, dinner’s ready.” He called.

When Sherlock sat at the table, his plate had already been dished up.

“Try and deduce me, and I’ll leave the table to eat alone.” John warned, piquing Sherlock’s curiosity further.

“And, believe me, we’ve been together more than long enough for me to be able to tell when you’re in the middle of your deductions.” John added firmly, as Sherlock poured himself a glass of lemonade.

“Yes, all right, John.” Sherlock told him, agreeing.

John nodded. “Good.” He said, beginning to eat his meal.

 

 

Just as John had finished the last forkful of fried rice on his plate, the bell went off.

John’s eyes widened as he hurried to answer the door.

“Stay there!” John called back to Sherlock, who had stood up to see why John had been so enthusiastic about getting to the door.

He obeyed, waiting for John to return, which he did a couple of minutes later looking even more smug than he had earlier.

Sherlock was feeling more content thanks to John, and now that he was distracted by a mystery that he had been forbidden to solve, he was feeling even better.

“Who was it, John?” Sherlock asked, hoping for a clue of some sort.

“Like I would tell you.” John said, not giving anything away that easily.

Sherlock grinned.

This was getting interesting.

John had rarely been able to keep anything from him.

Of course, had John allowed him to make his deductions, his little secret wouldn’t have stood a chance.

“Now, how about you go and have a soak in the tub.” John suggested.

With all of the housework he’d done, Sherlock was fairly grungy.

He agreed, and headed to their private bathroom.

 

 

As Sherlock lounged in the tub, John carefully constructed the swing, attaching it to the ceiling in the extra room in their flat.

Perhaps they could make this their own little sex room, full of all sorts of goodies…

Well, until they needed to convert the room into a nursery, anyway.

John let that idea roll around in his mind for a while, as he carefully double checked his work.

The swing looked great, and it was quite sturdy.

Before leaving the room, he set the cock ring, handcuffs and the new bottle of lube on the floor and closed the door.

It had been twenty-five minutes, and he went to see if Sherlock was finished bathing.

He wasn’t.

John laid down on the bed, and waited.

It was another fifteen minutes before he heard the tub drain.

Sherlock was another five minutes in the bathroom, before he walked out, a blue towel about his waist.

“I’ve been thinking, John.” He said, as he opened the closet door. “We should start thinking about finding a better OB/GYN for Melissa.”

John frowned. “What? Why?” He asked in confusion.

“Because, I dislike her current one.” Sherlock stated simply.

John blinked. “Okay, why not? He seemed professional and friendly to me.” John replied.

Sherlock sat down on the bed.

“From his voice pattern and behaviour it was easy to see that he was prejudiced against us, and I don’t want Melissa seeing him again. At least, not when it comes to the task we have set out to accomplish.” Sherlock explained.

John uncrossed his arms. “Prejudiced…” He repeated, trying to think of even one thing that he’d noticed that could be perceived as prejudicial.

He couldn’t think of anything.

“Yes.” Sherlock said. 

John sighed.

“Well, that’s more or less up to Melissa, but we can talk to her about it.” John said. “After all, she’s the one that’s bearing most of the brunt. She should make the decision of which medical professional she’s comfortable with.”

Sherlock moved to lie down.

“Sherlock, we haven’t had dessert.” John said suddenly.

Sherlock straightened back up.

That couldn’t have been what John had been so secretive about, could it?

Had he ordered some sort of sexy confection for them to share?

“Come on, let’s go have some.” John encouraged.

Sherlock stood up, and followed John into the kitchen.

John took a box of gourmet chocolates out of the cupboard, and placed them on the table.

He opened the box, popping a dark square of chocolate flavoured with cinnamon into Sherlock’s mouth.

Sherlock chewed slowly, savouring the rich flavours.

John bit into one, noting the thoughtful look on Sherlock’s face as he swallowed.

He took another chocolate from the box, putting it into his mouth and tasting chilies.

A look of enlightenment spread over his face.

John tilted his head.

He hoped that Sherlock hadn’t just figured out his entire plan.

After swallowing, Sherlock leaned back in his chair.

“You’re seducing me with aphrodisiacal sweets.” He stated confidently.

“And?” John said.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “And you obviously have a night of passion on your mind.” He answered.

So he hadn’t figured it all out.

John nodded.

“I won’t dispute that.” He said slyly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to accept another chocolate from John’s hand, this one being filled with honey.

In return, Sherlock fed John one of the dark domes of chocolate.

 

 

After they’d consumed half of the box’s contents, John led Sherlock outside the extra bedroom, pinning him against the wall and kissing him.

His fingers weaved into Sherlock’s hair, as John felt Sherlock’s tongue begin tasting his mouth.

“What have you hidden in that room?” Sherlock asked, more curious than ever.

“Open the door, and find out.” John invited, removing his fingers from Sherlock’s tresses.

Sherlock turned the door knob, entering the room.

Whatever he had been thinking that John might have had in mind, this was certainly not it.

John bit his lip, waiting for Sherlock to say something.

“Well?” He asked, hoping that he hadn’t gone completely overboard.

Sherlock went over to it, poking the seat in an unsure sort of way.

“It’s too much, isn’t it?” John said, feeling like an idiot.

Sherlock noticed the other items on the floor, and turned back to John.

“You really had an evening planned, didn’t you?” Sherlock asked him, masking his interest.

John stared at the floor, his face red. 

He really blew it this time…

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“John, who did you picture sitting in this contraption when you bought it?” Sherlock asked out of curiosity.

John cleared his throat.

“Well, um… I had sort of liked the idea of it being you, to be honest.” John answered a little quietly.

Sherlock was silent for a moment.

“You want to fuck me while I sit in a swing?” Sherlock asked, finding himself liking the idea.

This was quite different than anything they’d ever done, and he liked that.

John stammered.

“I… Um, Well… Er…” He mumbled.

Sherlock chuckled, letting the towel drop.

“Well, come on, John.” He said. “Don’t just stand there.”

John looked up at him in surprise.

“You… You’re actually okay with this?” He asked, a rush going through him.

Sherlock reached down and picked up the lube.

“Of course.” He replied. “This is interesting, and much better than some of the things you’ve come up with in the past.”

John recalled a few things that Sherlock had been less than impressed about.

Sherlock walked over and turned to kiss him, fondling John’s erect dick as he felt himself grow harder.

They went on like this for some time, just kissing and touching, before they both greedily craved more, adding the swing to the mix.

 

 

“Help me into this device.” Sherlock said, fumbling with the straps.

John assisted him into the harness, making sure that everything was as it should be, before leaning in and sloppily kissing Sherlock.

He stood up, and blindfolded Sherlock with a sleep masque from their bedroom.

Sherlock grinned widely.

John knelt down between the widely spread legs, taking Sherlock into his mouth.

As he bobbed his head, he hummed, creating a vibrational effect for Sherlock.

John heard a sharp intake of breath, and after a few moments, he pulled off.

He applied some cooling lube to Sherlock’s pretty pink hole, making him gasp in surprise at the sudden chilly sensation.

So many new things in one night. This was going to be something to remember for a long time.

John slathered a bit along his aching cock, enjoying the coldness of the liquid and positioned himself.

He thrust gently in, stopping once he was fully inside Sherlock to suck at a rosy nipple.

Sherlock took a deep breath, and John began to move.

“Too slow.” Sherlock told him.

That was the point. 

To build Sherlock up leisurely, bring him to the brink over and over until he begged John for mercy.

John did not begin to thrust faster, to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“Faster, John.” Sherlock demanded huskily.

“Shut up, Sherlock.” John told him. “You do realise that the point of the swing is that the one in it is supposed to be submissive, while the other partner is in full control?” He asked.

Sherlock knew that it was futile to argue.

It seemed like forever before John had quickened his pace enough.

Sherlock was moaning softly.

John thrust harder, making Sherlock’s brows come together.

“Uh… Uh… Oh…” Sherlock groaned as his pleasure grew, nearing the edge swiftly.

John slowed down, withdrawing himself.

He slipped on the cock ring, as Sherlock complained about being neglected.

John thrust back in, fucking Sherlock hard.

“Yes, John, like that…” Sherlock fairly purred, his body becoming slick with perspiration.

John thrust even harder, and a few minutes later Sherlock began to mumble nonsensically as John sent him hurtling towards orgasm once more.

And again, John stopped just as he had before.

“J-John.” Sherlock panted, the neediness in his voice almost palpable.

John teased Sherlock’s entrance with his engorged cock, until Sherlock was fairly whimpering.

He crept inside, a tortuously slow pace, making Sherlock arch his hips uselessly.

Once he was fully in, John immediately hastened his pace considerably, evoking throaty moans.

“John, oh J- Ah!” He cried out, the sensations of approaching orgasm multiplied many times over by now.

“Don’t you dare… Uh!... Stop this time.” Sherlock stated firmly between breaths.

John chuckled a little breathlessly, slowing down a bit.

“Or what?” John asked, wondering what Sherlock would say.

“Or…” Sherlock tried to think of something, but found it rather difficult to concentrate on coming up with anything good. “It doesn’t matter, just don’t stop.” He pleaded.

John sped up, his head beginning to swim with the pleasure. He brought Sherlock very nearly to climax, finding it difficult to halt his movements and stopping just in time.

“No, John, please…Have mercy...” Sherlock puffed. “I can’t… I need-“

But John cut him off.

“What, Sherlock.” He asked. “What do you need?” John ran his hands along Sherlock’s damp chest.

Sweat was literally dripping from Sherlock’s body.

Sherlock swallowed.

“John, let me come.” He answered, aching terribly with the need of release.

John gave one small thrust, making Sherlock whine.

“Ask me nicely.” John demanded, nipping gently at a pert nipple.

“John, please…” Sherlock wriggled. “Won’t you give me what I need?” He asked desperately.

John smiled against Sherlock’s skin.

“You need it bad, don’t you?” John said in a low growl, beginning to thrust shallowly and gripping Sherlock's firm buttocks tightly.

Sherlock was writhing.

“Damn it all, John, please!” Sherlock begged.

John pulled out, and removed the cock ring.

“I swear, we are never doing this again…” Sherlock told him, his voice quavering slightly, aching to have John back inside his body.

John entered Sherlock forcefully, pumping in and out of him violently, ceaselessly thrusting until both he and Sherlock spiralled into joyous oblivion.

Their passionate cries where intermingled, and as they came together, Sherlock spurted so forcefully that sprays of cum arched through the air to land on the wall behind them.

When John was able, he slid out of Sherlock, feeling weak in the knees.

He held onto the swing to steady himself, as Sherlock lay limply in the restraints.

John caught his breath.

“So, never again then.” John said softly, pulling Sherlock’s blindfold off.

Sherlock grinned at him.

“In view of the end result, you can forget I ever said that.” Sherlock replied.

John helped Sherlock out of the swing, and they both took a shower before heading to bed for the night.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the duration of time between chapters, but I've been very busy, plus I developed writer's block.
> 
>  
> 
> As always, feel free to (nicely, please) let me know if I've made a mistake here or if there's something that just strikes you as out of place.

A fortnight later, Mycroft had begun to perk up, to Greg’s relief.

Mycroft was no longer sleeping in overly late, was back to eating properly, and had begun acting more like his normal self.

Greg couldn’t be certain if Mycroft was actually recovering, or simply beginning to push everything down and ignoring it.

It was nearly eight o’clock in the morning, and Greg awoke with a long stretch.

As he did, he accidentally let one of his arms land on Mycroft’s neck, jolting him into consciousness.

Greg grinned sheepishly.

“Sorry…” He apologised, as Mycroft rubbed sleep from his eyes before sitting up in bed.

“That’s all right, Greg.” He replied, still feeling tired.

Yesterday had been difficult for him, and he hadn’t slept especially well during the night.

The funeral had taken place the previous day, and while it was something of a relief to be done with all of the arrangements and to have the ceremony done with, he didn’t necessarily feel that much better for it.

“Tell you what.” Greg said, noting the exhaustion on Mycroft’s face. “Let’s have breakfast in bed, and just take it easy for now.” 

Mycroft shook his head.

“No, my dear.” He said in a soft voice. “If I don’t get out of bed now, I don’t suppose that I shall leave it at all today.”

Mycroft stood up, and went over to the wardrobe.

He began to dress himself in one of his finer suits, seeking a bit of comfort in his clothing.

Greg merely pulled on a pair of old blue jeans and a t-shirt, then went about making the bed.

Mycroft had told him time and again that he had staff to do such things for them.

However, Greg continued to do it out of force of habit, and Mycroft had given up on reminding Greg that he needn’t complete that chore.

Greg turned to look at Mycroft, and bit his lip.

It had been nearly a week since they’d expressed their physical love for one another, what with all of the funeral arrangements that had been left solely to Mycroft, an important work item that couldn’t be avoided and had to be dealt with, and Mycroft's grief.

Greg had been doing his best to put Mycroft first and be as loving and supportive as he could be.

He had his needs, certainly.

But especially now, Mycroft came first.

Greg sighed, and opened the bedroom door as Mycroft finished tying his tie before they headed to take breakfast.

 

 

John awoke with one of Sherlock’s knees digging into his abdomen as he lay on his side, while the other was pressed up against his crotch with an uncomfortable amount of pressure.

He managed to scootch away slowly, without disturbing Sherlock.

John slid on a pair of trousers, and headed to the kitchen to make some toast.

Sherlock had decided on attending his mother’s funeral the previous day, although John had figured that he had gone just as much to appease Mycroft as anything else.

Despite the fact that the Holmes brothers were not especially close, John knew that there was still most certainly a bond between them, however small it might have been.

Of course, John had gone with Sherlock, as Greg had with Mycroft.

Though Sherlock had suspected that Mycroft had someone living with him, from a few small unconscious clues from John, he hadn’t figured out who it was.

Yesterday’s events had confirmed Sherlock’s suspicions, which Mycroft had taken note of.

As the Reverend McDougall read a passage from the black bible in his hands, Sherlock easily detected numerous supportive glances and gestures that Greg Lestrade had given Mycroft as he stood close by his side.

And, of course, he’d noticed a number of other behaviours during the ceremony that indicated that he and Mycroft shared a personal and romantic intimacy.

Sherlock refrained from giving it away that he possessed such knowledge, considering the circumstance at hand.

Mycroft may have appeared aloof and uncaring to the other members of the gathered crowd that had turned up to pay their respects.

However, Sherlock knew better.

He was quite aware that it was taking quite a lot of Mycroft’s energy to put up such a façade, and going by the way that he was carrying himself, that it wouldn’t last all that much longer.

It was strange to see Mycroft like that, in obvious mourning.

Obvious to Sherlock, anyway.

His brother wasn’t one to allow such displays of emotion, and prided himself on his constant composure.

It was quite nearly unsettling to witness such a thing, and to be feeling next to nothing when it came to the death of their mother made the observation that much more uncomfortable.

Even as Sherlock gazed upon his mother’s cold corpse as she lay in her satin lined coffin, he felt little emotion in regards to her death.

The faces around him were teary and gloomy, and he wondered how his mother could have touched so many people, while never coming to love and accept him.

Not that he cared very much, not any longer.

As he walked past the coffin once the ceremony came to a close, there had been one specific thought that stood out among the others storming in his brain.

That this woman lying before him was the reason that he’d ever begun to shove his emotions down and lock them away.

He’d found himself believing, as Mycroft had so eloquently put it in the past, that ‘caring is not an advantage.’

And, up until he’d gotten to know John, he had maintained that notion.

Sherlock pressed his lips together as he walked away, wondering how different he would have turned out had he never begun locking away his feelings, becoming a sort of machine.

 

 

The heat wave that had begun two days previously, had the potential to last the rest of the week and possibly longer.

John glanced out the window, and frowned.

While he could handle the heat well enough, Sherlock wasn’t as lucky.

There was no air conditioning in the flat, and the couple of fans that they had didn’t make all that much difference.

It was only nine o’clock in the morning, but he could feel the heat already begin to rise.

It had been a sweaty, sticky sort of night, and not the kind that John would normally have looked forward to.

It had been much too warm for even a sheet, and they had slept far apart from one another for the most part of the night.

With the high temperatures expected, John knew that they would need to find some sort of respite from the heat.

As John made some toast, he heard Sherlock’s bare feet on the linoleum flooring of the kitchen.

“Morning, Sherlock.” John greeted him.

Sherlock nodded sleepily, looking more pale than usual, wearing nothing but a pair of white pants.

His skin was slightly damp with sweat.

John frowned, and poured him a cool glass of water, setting it at the table in front of Sherlock.

He decided to inquire and see if Mrs. Hudson would permit them to have an air conditioner installed.

If there were any left in the city to be purchased, that is.

Since the heat wave had begun, finding any sort of fan or air conditioner to obtain was becoming increasingly difficult.

Sherlock sipped at the water, closing his eyes as the cold liquid travelled down his throat.

John knew the early signs of heatstroke, and Sherlock was beginning to display a number of them.

He knew that with the temperature in the flat rising, that Sherlock would soon need to relocate to somewhere cooler where he could rest.

John frowned, watching Sherlock.

Since late last afternoon, Sherlock had begun to exhibit warning signs of heat exhaustion, and John was doing his best to keep him resting and hydrated.

“I’ll be fine, John.” Sherlock told him, his voice a little weaker than usual.

“Oh, yes.” John said with a small teasing smile. “Because you’re always fine, aren’t you?”

Sherlock gave a small chuckle, taking a swallow of water.

“Seriously, Sherlock, how are you feeling?” John asked in concern.

Sherlock sighed.

“John, really, I’m fine.” Sherlock assured him. “I’m just a little warm, that’s all.”

John crossed his arms.

“You know as well as I do, that the heat is beginning to affect you.” He said. “We need to go somewhere cooler where you can rest.”

Sherlock wouldn’t admit it, but he was beginning to feel ill.

He’d never been able to handle the heat especially well, and knew what he was in for if he didn’t find more hospitable surroundings.

Sherlock wasn’t keen on the idea of wandering about the mall for hours on end in order to stay cool, and somewhere like the beach was simply out of the question.

On a hot day, the beach was simply a mad place to travel to, what with the time it took to get there and the likelihood of ending up with perhaps four inches of personal space at most.

Sherlock agreed with John, they would have to leave the flat during the day, when the temperature was expected to elevate to 91 degrees Fahrenheit.

John got a sudden notion, which Sherlock noticed immediately.

“What is it, John?” He asked, leaning back in his chair.

John shook his head.

“Nothing.” He said in discouragement. “Never mind, it wasn’t a very good idea.”

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls, which had wound tighter with the humid heat.

“Indulge me.” Sherlock told him, his cerulean coloured eyes fixed on John curiously.

John put his left hand in a front trouser pocket.

“Well, it’s only a half-baked idea, really…” John warned. “But, I sort of thought that maybe Mycroft would be willing to have us over until the heat wave dies down a bit.”

He could tell by Sherlock’s face that he wasn’t altogether pleased at the thought.

“I know, I know.” John said blushing slightly. “Stupid idea.”

Sherlock finished the glass of water.

“Considering that he does have central air conditioning and that the heat does affect me so, it’s not such an unappealing prospect.” Sherlock replied.

“However, while you may be able to handle such a lengthy visit with my brother, I cannot honestly state that I could.” Sherlock went on. “That is, if he would even consent.” 

John nodded.

“Right, yeah, of course…” He mumbled.

Sherlock wiped perspiration from his forehead with the length of his forefinger.

“However, perhaps just for the day, such a stay could be arranged.” He said, beginning to feel worse.

The temperature within the flat had already reached 73 degrees Fahrenheit.

“John, will you bring my mobile to me?” He asked, and John nodded.

He went to the bedroom, bringing the phone back and handing it to Sherlock, who begun typing out a message to his brother.

A few minutes later, a reply came.

‘Come if you must. –MH’

Of course, he hadn’t expected Mycroft to be thrilled at the prospect either.

“Well?” John asked, waiting for Sherlock to let him know what was going on.

Sherlock looked up at him.

“Mycroft has granted his permission.” He answered. “Although, I might very well prefer to suffer the heat, rather than my brother.”

John did not look impressed.

Sherlock took a breath, closing his eyes.

Damn his weakness when it came to warm temperatures.

“So, are you going to really be that stubborn?” John asked.

Sherlock opened his eyes.

“Of course not, John.” He replied. “I wouldn’t put my health before my pride.”

John raised an eyebrow, recalling a couple of times when he’d done just that.

“Well, then, we should get going before it gets any hotter.” John pointed out.

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

He was not looking forward to seeing his brother.

He stood up, and went to put on some clothes.

 

 

Sherlock’s wardrobe consisted mainly of dark clothing, suits in particular, and so John had lent him a novelty t-shirt and a pair of drawstring shorts that made Sherlock look even thinner with the way they hung on him.

John bit back a grin, as he took in the sight of Sherlock in such attire.

“Shut up.” Sherlock told him, squinting his eyes just a bit.

He felt as awkward as he looked, which may have been a first for him.

 

 

Mycroft would be working from home that day, and Greg would be at the station until the evening hours.

He wasn’t all that pleased that Sherlock would likely be coming by the estate, but he knew that Sherlock’s health would be affected by the warm weather.

It was his duty as the older brother to care for his younger sibling, at least to a certain extent, and so he would fulfill his role, however hesitantly.

And, considering the weather forecast for the next while, he had taken the liberty of preparing a guest room for both Sherlock and John.

After all, it wouldn’t do to send them back to deal with the sweltering heat back at 221 B until it had died down.

He remembered an occasion from his childhood, when Sherlock had ended up with a bad case of heat exhaustion when he was only four years old.

He himself had done his best to care for his brother, bringing him cool compresses, light snacks when Sherlock had become hungry, and water to keep him hydrated.

Between Mycroft’s efforts and the care of the nanny, Sherlock had recovered nicely.

He sighed as he recalled this, remembering how different Sherlock had been back then.

How different everything had been.

 

 

When John and Sherlock arrived, James let them in.

“Welcome, Sirs.” He greeted them genuinely, a smile on his face as he held the door open.

John and Sherlock nodded at him, and entered the house.

John immediately felt out of place once more, though the cool air that flowed around him made him forget that for a moment.

Sherlock closed his eyes, enjoying the feel of cold air playing on his exposed skin.

The cab that they’d come up in had broken air conditioning, and they’d been uncomfortably hot the entire trip.

Sherlock had been too stubborn to ask for Mycroft to send a car, even though it meant a miserable drive.

James offered to bring them refreshments in the den, and they both agreed easily.

 

 

As they sat in the den, drinking cold lemonade, John noticed that Sherlock seemed to be doing ever so slightly better already.

He was glad that he’d gotten Sherlock to agree to this, and so early on in the day.

While James poured Sherlock a second glass of refreshment, Mycroft strolled into the room.

They exchanged greetings, and Mycroft sat down across from the sofa that John and Sherlock were sitting upon.

There was silence for a few moments, before John asked how Mycroft had been.

Mycroft gave a soft sigh.

“Well enough.” He answered simply, not wishing to speak about how he was holding up.

While things had indeed been difficult for him, he was coping.

John nodded.

“That’s good…” He replied, feeling a touch awkward as the conversation died.

Sherlock was looking peaky, his skin waxy and his eyes a little bleary.

“I’ve had a room organised for the pair of you, should you choose to use it.” Mycroft informed them.

“As the heat is to linger for a while yet, it only seems fitting that you stay here until it breaks.”

Mycroft didn’t seem happy to make such an offer, though John was secretly glad that he had.

It wouldn’t have been easy to find somewhere else where Sherlock would be able to rest out of the heat.

“Thank you.” John told him.

Mycroft set his hands on the armrests of the chair.

“Not at all.” He said a little dryly, as he glanced at Sherlock, feeling as though he would come to regret his offer before long.

“Perhaps it would be best if you laid down, brother.” Mycroft suggested, as Sherlock let his eyes close for a moment.

Sherlock agreed in a slight mumble.

Mycroft instructed James to show them to their room.

 

 

After a brief walk, they reached the same room that John had been meant to stay in before.

Sherlock stretched out on the bed, and John shut the door.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and promptly began to settle into blissful sleep.

John lay down on the bed beside him, but not close enough to touch, in order for Sherlock to stay nice and cool.

He watched Sherlock for a while before getting up.

He hadn’t rested especially well last night, but he couldn’t fall asleep.

And so, he headed back to the den, where he found Mycroft scribbling notes in a small leather bound book.

As John sat down, not sure what to do with himself, Mycroft made very brief eye contact with him, before returning to his writing.

From the frown on Mycroft’s face, John figured that it must have been something important.

He crossed his legs, and wished that he’d thought to bring his laptop.

At least then, he’d have had something ready to occupy his time.

“Er, Mycroft?” John tried to gather the other man’s attention.

“What is it, John?” Mycroft asked him, not looking up from his work.

John cleared his throat.

“I was wondering if you might be willing to lend me something to read.” He answered, fidgeting slightly in his seat.

Mycroft turned a page in the book.

“Yes, of course.” He replied softly. “Should you go down the hall behind you, you will find a decent library three rooms down on your left.”

John nodded, though Mycroft hadn’t been looking at him.

“Right, cheers.” John said, before leaving to find the aforementioned room.

 

 

John found the library easily enough, and was rather impressed by it.

It was a sizable room, with numerous mahogany shelves holding rows upon rows of all sorts of books.

In the centre of the room, which had a burgundy theme to it, a comfortable sitting area had been situated.

A large bay window afforded the library an abundance of natural light, adding to the room’s ambience.

As John perused the various shelves, he settled on a novel entitled ‘The Vesuvius Club’ that looked worth checking out.

He sat in one of the soft, brown leather chairs and began to read.

 

 

Greg Lestrade sat at the desk in his office, speaking to Constable Thomas, a new recruit who was having a bit of difficulty with an arrest and was on his own.

Normally, he wouldn't have had to deal with such an underling, however the boy was his cousin's daughter's son, and he'd been polite and offered to help Thomas should he ever need it before he'd been hired on.

Thomas had called the number that Greg had given him on a few occasions now, none of which had been all that serious of a situation, and he found himself regretting ever giving his number out.

Greg pinched the bridge of his nose.

“Look, Thomas, you’re a police officer. You need to act like it.” He said in slight aggravation. "And, in the future, kindly contact your sergeant should you need to, rather than myself. I gave you this number for personal use, in case you hadn't realised that by now."

He didn’t feel that Thomas would all that suited for police work, being somewhat shy and easily intimidated.

“But, Detective Inspector…” The squeaky voice came over the receiver.

“I’ve got someone nearby who’ll give you a hand, just give her a minute.” Greg told him with a sigh, feeling tired.

It was bad enough that Anderson had loused up an entire stack of paperwork before leaving for the day, fairly dumping that in his lap, but now he was practically babysitting Constable Thomas as well.

Greg hung up the phone, leaned onto his desk, and rubbed his eyes.

At least he could look forward to relaxing with a cold pint by the side of the pool after work.

He sighed, and went back to correcting the mistakes that Anderson had made.

 

 

Sherlock awoke an hour later feeling much refreshed.

The cooler environment was doing a world of good for him.

He stretched his long limbs and left the bedroom, feeling thirsty.

Sherlock walked along the hallway to the kitchen, not feeling completely back to his normal self, but certainly getting there.

He stepped into the kitchen, and opened the large steel refrigerator.

He took a bottle of water from the uppermost shelf and opened it, pouring the contents into a glass before placing the plastic container into the recycling bin.

Sherlock leaned against the counter, sipping at the cold water and hoping that the hot weather wouldn’t last nearly as long as predicted.

Of course, he knew that was entirely unlikely.

Considering his situation, he realised that the best course of action would indeed be to stay at Mycroft’s home until the weather cooled.

At least the house was large enough that they wouldn’t need to see one another unless it was desired.

There were times when Sherlock missed how things used to be between him and his brother, though they were far and few between.

And now was certainly not one of those rare occasions.

As he tipped the last of his drink into his mouth, he set the glass in the sink and went to the den where he found Mycroft.

 

 

“Good afternoon. Did you sleep well?” Mycroft asked pleasantly enough, still writing in the book.

Sherlock glanced around for John.

“Well enough.” Sherlock responded tonelessly.

He wasn’t really in the mood to deal with his brother.

Mycroft looked up from his notes.

“Good.” He said. “John is quite likely in the library, should you want to find him.”

Sherlock glanced quickly at Mycroft’s scribbling, wanting to get a glimpse as to what it was that he was doing.

Mycroft tipped the book just so that Sherlock was unable to make anything out.

“You’ve always been rather nosy, Sherlock.” Mycroft chided him with a small amused smile on his face.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, knowing that there wouldn’t be much point in shooting back a retort.

He merely gave his brother a tight-lipped smile, before heading to find John.

 

 

Sherlock entered the library, and sat across from John, who closed the book and set it on the coffee table.

“You’re looking a bit less peaky.” John commented.

“I am feeling considerably better.” Sherlock admitted, as John looked a touch relieved.

Sherlock looked about the room.

He’d always liked Mycroft’s library, with the large selection and volume of books that were displayed on the numerous shelves.

That was one of the few things that he didn’t like about 221 B Baker Street, in that it simply did not have enough space for an ample library.

John licked his lips unconsciously as he looked at Sherlock.

“Oh, for goodness sake, John, does your libido ever ebb?” Sherlock asked teasingly, knowing perfectly well what John was thinking.

“What?” John asked, feigning innocence. 

Sherlock gazed knowingly into John’s warm brown eyes with a small smile.

“As though you could ever fool me, John.” Sherlock replied softly.

“I have each of the facial expressions that you use when you are craving sex filed away in my memory.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Really, now?” He asked. “And how many do I have then, out of curiosity?”

Sherlock didn’t even blink.

“Thirteen, although if one were to take the more subtle variations you will incorporate from time to time into account, then nineteen.” Sherlock responded.

John wasn’t certain how to respond to this.

He gave a small chuckle.

“I don’t suppose that I’ll ever know you quite as well as you know me, Sherlock…” John told him, beginning to think that Sherlock might even know him better than he knew himself.

Now that was an odd thought.

“That is unlikely.” Sherlock agreed. “Still, that doesn’t seem to bother you.”

John shrugged.

“That would be an impossible thing for me to accomplish.” He responded. “There’s no point in getting bothered by it.”

Sherlock agreed.

“Certainly not.” He said.

John shifted in his seat in the way that indicated that he was becoming aroused.

Sherlock shook his head.

“Not now, John.” He said, still feeling a little nauseous from being overly warm for the past two days.

John widened his eyes.

“No, of course not, I… Well, you know I can’t help it.” John said.

He knew that Sherlock needed to rest, and that while he would love to get Sherlock all hot and bothered, that it wouldn’t be in his love’s best interest to do so.

Sherlock gave a small nod.

“I understand perfectly.” Sherlock assured him. “I just wanted to make it crystal clear that I am not up to such activities for the moment.”

John crossed his legs, trying to ignore his growing erection.

He cleared his throat.

“So…” He began, trailing off into silence.

Sherlock sighed.

He never liked it when John would begin a sentence and then just end it abruptly.

He felt dirty, after sweating so much earlier.

“Would you like to share a tepid bath with me?” Sherlock inquired, wanting to be close to John but still feeling too warm for such contact.

Soaking in cool water would afford them the luxury of cuddling without Sherlock becoming uncomfortably temperate.

John liked the sound of that idea, and agreed.

 

 

Having finished all of the work related tasks that he’d needed to complete, Mycroft took the time in order to allow his mind to completely clear for a few minutes.

It had taken years of practice for him to learn this skill, and it had been well worth it.

To be able to truly empty his mind when it began to tear itself apart with violent torrents of thought was a blessing.

These were only brief moments, but they were greatly significant.

Mycroft sighed, as he allowed his thoughts to flow once more.

He noted the time on his watch.

15:19

Greg wouldn’t be home for another four hours.

Perhaps he would try his hand at making them dinner tonight for a change of pace.

Mycroft wasn’t altogether a terrible chef, though he lacked passion in the kitchen.

Cooking simply wasn’t an activity that he enjoyed.

But, he did like to do things for his lover, and even if he didn’t particularly like to prepare food, he would do it to make Greg happy.

And considering how pleased Greg had been the last time he’d prepared a meal for them to share, he didn’t really mind so much.

He went into the kitchen, and began preparing a roast.

 

 

As John ran the bathwater, being careful to make sure that it was a good temperature, Sherlock sat nude on the side of the tub.

John noticed a bit of slight heat rash on Sherlock’s skin.

“You really aren’t meant to handle the heat.” He said, shaking his head.

Sherlock plunged his hand into the tub, swirling the water around as the tub filled.

“This is nothing.” Sherlock told him. “I have suffered far worse from the hot weather than this.”

John frowned, feeling bad for Sherlock.

He’d never really had much of a problem with higher temperatures.

Even in Afghanistan, it hadn’t taken him long at all to adjust to the change in weather.

He’d always much preferred the hot and muggy days over cooler ones.

John turned the tap off and they climbed in.

The tub was quite large, and even with both of them sitting in it, there was still enough room for even a third person.

Sherlock leaned back against the side of the tub, closing his eyes as the cool water washed over him.

John gathered some bathwater in his hands, and poured it over Sherlock’s slightly blistered skin.

Sherlock opened his eyes a bit, as the water trickled down.

He turned around, and let John do the same to his back.

“Mmm…” Sherlock moaned very softly, delighting in the relaxing sensation.

John smiled.

He began to trace patterns along Sherlock’s back, just letting his fingers trail ever so gently along the sensitive skin.

Sherlock closed his eyes, and could see precisely what John was drawing.

It was mainly nonsensical, though there was the odd purposeful design throughout.

Sherlock put his forearms on the back of the tub, and leaned his forehead on them, exposing the back of his neck to John.

He soon felt those nimble fingers skate wetly up to just beneath his curls.

Sherlock’s skin was peppered with goosebumps, reacting visibly to John’s touch.

Soon, he began to feel himself doze, and he straightened up, looking back at John sleepily.

“Come here.” John told him, scooting back to the other end of the tub.

Sherlock made his way over, and leaned against John.

He put his head against John’s chest, listening to his breathing and heartbeat as he closed his eyes.

It was only a matter of minutes before Sherlock was asleep.

 

 

An hour or so later, Sherlock awoke, John holding him safely in the water.

Sherlock looked up at John, who brushed a stray curl out of his eyes.

“I don’t know about you, but I’m all pruny.” John said, reaching to drain the tub.

Sherlock stood up carefully, still somewhat drowsy.

John got to his feet, handing Sherlock a towel as he stepped out of the tub.

As John towelled off, he heard Sherlock’s mobile.

“Leave it ring, I’ll call them back.” Sherlock told him as John prepared to bring the phone in to Sherlock.

After they were dry and dressed, Sherlock checked his mobile.

“Nobody significant.” Sherlock announced as he checked the information on the missed call.

John sat on the bed, trying to keep his mind from straying into lusty thoughts once more.

And it hadn’t been easy to do.

It had been a number of days since they’d had any sort of real sexual contact.

Sherlock had been very much immersed in some sort of complicated series of experiments, and John had been quite busy with extra shifts that he’d promised to take on at the clinic for Sarah.

And now that they were here, alone together without any distractions, John couldn’t help but feel frisky.

As soon as Sherlock was ready and willing, John planned to fuck him straight through the damn bed.

He licked his lips again unconsciously, as a smug little grin formed on his face as he gave up on thinking clean thoughts and began to fantasise about what he would do to Sherlock when the time came.


	9. Chapter 9

That evening, when Greg arrived home after a fairly trying day, he was pleasantly surprised to find that Mycroft had prepared quite a lovely meal.

He arrived at the table to a dinner of succulent roast pork smothered in carmelised apples and onions, creamy mashed potatoes with gravy, and okra.

It smelled absolutely heavenly to Greg, who was famished.

Mycroft portioned out the meal, and poured two helpings of vintage Riesling wine into two long stemmed goblets.

Greg cut off a bite-sized piece of roast pork, then stifled a yawn.

Mycroft took a sip of wine, before spearing some okra onto his fork.

“You’ve been working a good deal of overtime lately.” Mycroft stated, wanting him at home more often, not only for Greg's sake, but for his own as well.

“Perhaps you should take some time for yourself.”

Mycroft had made a good point.

But, it wasn’t as though he’d wanted to work so many long shifts.

Greg had simply been needed at work, and he hadn’t given it a second thought.

He’d wanted to become a police officer ever since he was a boy, and that he’d climbed the ladder as much as he had so far was a dream come true.

Greg enjoyed his work for the most part, therefore he really didn’t mind so much in regards to the extra shifts.

But, Mycroft was right.

The long hours were beginning to take a toll on him.

He was becoming constantly tired, and had begun to develop tension headaches.

“Yeah, maybe I should.” Greg agreed, as he popped a forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth.

Mycroft brought up the fact that they had guests, as Greg chewed.

“Oh?” Greg said after swallowing. “Who is it?”

Mycroft looked mildly annoyed.

“My brother is staying with us, as he suffers from the higher temperatures and is unable to stay in his flat until the heat weakens.” He answered a little unhappily. “John has come with him, of course.”

Greg nodded.

“Does Sherlock… Know about us?” Greg asked, thinking that it was quite likely that he did.

It wasn’t easy to keep any sort of secret from a Holmes.

“He has not said as much, but it is highly likely that he is aware of our relationship, Greg.” Mycroft answered.

Greg took a swallow of wine.

He was beginning to feel a little stressed at this.

“There is nothing to be worried about, Greg.” Mycroft reassured him.

He knew this, and yet the prospect of someone knowing exactly how he and Mycroft felt about one another had Greg feeling a strange sort of pressure.

Greg knew that there must have been a few people speculating as to what he and Mycroft were to one another, but for someone outside of Mycroft’s staff to actually know the facts...

Well, that was a bit different.

Mycroft frowned.

“Will having John and Sherlock here be an issue for you?” Mycroft asked in concern.

Greg shook his head.

“No… Well, I don’t think so.” Greg answered. “I just feel a bit weird, you know?”

Mycroft’s expression softened.

“I believe that I can understand your point of view.” He replied.

“But, we are a couple, and people are inevitably going to find out about us sooner or later.”

Greg knew this, and most of him didn’t give a damn if people did take notice, while a part of him was still on edge about it.

Mycroft, finished eating, set his utensils down.

“Greg, it will take some time before you are used to the idea of the general public knowing that you are in a relationship with a man.” He started, a sombre look on his handsome face.

“Trust me, I know. During my first relationship with a member of the same sex, I did everything in my power to hide it for fear of losing respect from my colleagues and family.” He went on, remembering.

Greg listened closely.

“And, while I yet keep my sexual preferences to myself when it comes to my family, I have become quite comfortable being who I am with whomever it is that I am with, whether or not they approve.” Mycroft lifted his chin a little as he said this. “And, I’ve not had much negativity hurled in my direction for it.”

“Life is far too short to hide oneself away, Greg.” Mycroft reminded him gently. “And, while it is up to you as to whether or not you choose to allow your feelings for me to show in public, I do hope that you will learn that most people will be fairly decent when it comes to us.”

Greg blinked.

“Yeah, you’re right, of course.” He said. “I just… Well, I s’pose that I’ve seen one too many victims of hate crimes and I’m sort of afraid that something similar could end up happening to us.”

Mycroft smiled sadly.

“Yes, unfortunately such a thing is still a reality.” He said. “However, considering the security measures actively protecting the both of us, it isn’t all that likely that anyone shall ever have such an opportunity.”

Greg was aware of many of the security protocols that Mycroft had in place, and they were certainly impressive.

They continued to discuss this topic for the next half hour or so, before taking a dip in the pool together.

 

 

Sherlock lay naked on the bed, as John smoothed some lotion over his skin.

At least the tiny blisters that covered a fair amount of Sherlock’s skin weren’t painful to the touch.

Sherlock was no longer fevered, and he now had some slight colour in his cheeks.

They’d had dinner in their room, as the dining room was in use and John hadn’t wanted to disrupt Greg and Mycroft’s evening meal together.

So, he’d asked to have some food delivered to the bedroom.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t eat much at all.

John was happy that he’d had anything to eat.

As John smeared lotion on Sherlock’s hips, he heard a soft intake of breath.

He let his hands drift down a little lower, to Sherlock’s upper thighs.

“John…” Sherlock chided gently.

He still didn’t feel up to much of anything, and so John removed his hands from Sherlock’s skin.

John lay down beside Sherlock, fully clothed and sexually frustrated.

Sherlock covered his eyes with his left arm and sighed, after noticing the look on John’s face.

“John, I want you to touch yourself for me.” He said, letting his voice drop a little lower, becoming slightly husky in the way that turned John on.

“What?” John asked, caught off guard.

This wasn’t something that he had heard from Sherlock before.

“You know how I despise repetition, John. And besides, you heard me perfectly well.” Sherlock told him in response.

“Take your right hand, and ever so slowly, begin to massage yourself through your trousers.” Sherlock instructed him.

John raised an eyebrow, feeling a little weird, but obeying.

“Are you doing it?” Sherlock asked, still covering his eyes with his arm.

John closed his eyes, and confirmed that he was.

“How does it feel?” Sherlock asked him, fairly purring.

John felt his cock begin to stiffen quickly in response to his teasing hand.

“Good.” John said in a slightly strained voice. 

Sherlock’s mouth formed a tiny smile.

“Good.” He replied. “Now, remove your trousers and pants.”

He could hear it as John complied.

As John sat back down, Sherlock gave him another order.

“Wrap a hand around yourself, and leisurely, but firmly begin to stroke your full length.” He told John.

He was already leaking pre-cum, enough so that lubricant would hardly be necessary.

Sherlock could tell from the hiss of breath that John was complying.

“Now, stop.” Sherlock stated sternly, as John groaned quietly.

John was finding this to be sexier than he’d have ever imagined, and was enjoying the experience quite a bit.

“Grasp your testicles with your left hand and cup them, working them slowly.” Sherlock instructed.

John bit his lip, knowing that it wasn’t going to take much more to trigger his release.

He moaned softly, craving so much more than this simple touch.

After a few moments, Sherlock told him to begin stroking his cock gently.

It was taking some willpower for John to keep from jerking hard and fast.

This was unlike any masturbation session he’d had before, it was much more intense.

They were going to have to do this again sometime, only with their roles reversed.

“As you come to the head, tighten your grip slightly.” Sherlock said, stifling a yawn.

John’s breath quickened, becoming a touch ragged.

“You can feel it all building up to the inevitable outcome, can’t you, John?” Sherlock asked lowly.

John whimpered slightly, his hand moving all too slow.

“Increase your speed a fraction.” Sherlock directed him, and he happily complied.

“Oh, shit… Fuck…” John choked out, as he reached the brink.

“You’re going to come for me, aren’t you John?” Sherlock asked in a husky tone, adding that much more to John’s experience.

John closed his eyes even tighter, as he felt that delicious heat begin to spread through him.

“Oh, yes, Sherlock.” He ground out, as the heat began to intensify. “Fuck, yes!”

“Come now.” Sherlock commanded him, as John’s cock twitched and sent streams of semen landing on his own chest.

John cried out nonsensically as his orgasm rushed through his body.

As things began to calm down, he relaxed, his breathing coming in little gasps.

“Satisfied, John?” Sherlock asked, turning on his side to become more comfortable.

John opened his eyes, and looked over to Sherlock, who looked quite peaceful lying next to him.

“Definitely.” John answered, thinking how wonderfully different that had been.

Sherlock nestled deeper into the bed.

“Good.” He yawned.

Despite being quite tired, he knew that John would have spent the night sexually frustrated and wouldn’t have gotten a decent night’s rest without release.

And knowing that John needed something more than a simple, unimaginative wank, Sherlock decided to lend a bit of creativity.

“Good night, Sherlock.” John said adoringly, kissing his forehead before moving to clean himself up in the washroom.

“Good night, John.” Sherlock replied thickly, already half asleep.

 

 

After John had cleansed himself, he climbed into bed next to Sherlock.

In his sleep, Sherlock instinctively reached out for John, putting an arm around him and bringing him close to his body.

John smiled, feeling safe and loved.

He fell into a deep sleep, dreaming a strange dream where Sherlock had turned out to be a vampire and had made John his minion.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock awoke much earlier than John, and he watched John sleep for a little while, trying to deduce what he might be dreaming about.

This didn’t last too long, however, as John awoke not so long after Sherlock had.

He was pleased to see that Sherlock was looking healthier.

“Yes, John.” Sherlock told him, reading what John was thinking from the look on his face. “I do believe that I have recovered for the most part.”

John sat up, leaning against the headboard, yawning as he stretched his arms above his head.

“What time is it?” John asked.

“8:27.” Sherlock answered, checking his mobile’s clock display.

John got out of bed, and began to change into day clothes as Sherlock looked on.

“Aren’t you going to get dressed?” John asked, as Sherlock stayed exactly as he was.

He was feeling lazy, and would have preferred staying in bed a while longer.

But, he let his legs shift off of the bed, his feet landing on the floor heavily, and he stood up.

Sherlock looked through the suitcase that John had packed, hoping to find some of his usual wear.

He set one of his white long-sleeved shirts and a pair of dark trousers on the bed, before going to shower and shave.

“I’ll meet you in the dining room, okay, Sherlock?” John called through the door as the water began to run.

“Fine, John.” Sherlock returned, and stepped under the running water.

 

 

Ten minutes later, Sherlock walked into the dining room to find John, Mycroft and Greg sitting around the table.

Mycroft was sipping at a cup of tea whilst reading the morning paper, as Greg drank a cup of black coffee.

John didn’t have anything in front of him yet.

“Good morning.” Sherlock told the group.

Mycroft nodded subtly, glancing briefly at his brother before returning to the paper.

Greg gave him a tight smile, and returned the greeting.

Sherlock sat down beside John, looking keenly at Greg, who seemed just a touch nervous.

Greg cleared his throat, and tried to ignore Sherlock’s piercing eyes as they surveyed him.

Mycroft’s personal chef came by to inquire what John and Sherlock would be having for breakfast.

John asked for toast and strawberry jam, with a glass of milk.

Sherlock stated that he wasn’t hungry, earning himself a slight glare from John.

He knew that considering what his body had been through, that he really ought to eat something.

But, he simply couldn’t eat anything just then.

“I’ll have something at lunch.” Sherlock told him quietly.

John sighed.

That would have to do for now.

The chef left, and began working on John’s meal, as silence reigned over the table once more.

Greg tapped a fingernail against the ceramic mug that held his coffee, which was something that he often did when he was under stress.

“So, Mycroft’s told me that you’ll be staying for a few days until things cool off outside.” Greg said, trying to ease the quiet tension.

John nodded.

“Yeah, the flat’s not equipped with air conditioning and in this heat, fans are fairly useless in the scheme of things.” John replied.

“Right, yeah, I know what you mean…” Greg said, as the conversation ebbed.

Sherlock looked bored, as he stared out the window past Greg, retreating back into his mind.

“Could you not do that, please?” Greg asked Sherlock, fidgeting in his seat.

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, and made eye contact with Greg.

“What is it that you’d wanted?” He asked, not having heard him clearly over his thoughts.

“It’s just… If you would keep from zoning out like that at me.” Greg told him.

“It’s unnerving.” He added.

Sherlock exhaled.

“It isn’t easy being on the receiving end of one of your drawn out, pensive stares, Sherlock.” John agreed.

“I can hardly help where I happen to be looking when I’m in my head.” Sherlock stated almost huffily.

For the most part, whenever Sherlock was immersed in his deep thoughts, he wasn’t looking at anything in particular.

“So, he does this often, then?” Greg asked.

Sure, he’d known Sherlock for years, though he’d only seen Sherlock this way perhaps four times since they had met.

John nodded.

“It’s not exactly unusual.” He said with a small friendly smile.

Greg shook his head.

“I don’t know how you manage dealing with it.” Greg replied.

John laughed.

“After so long, I’ve become rather accustomed to it.” John said. “Actually, there are times when I don’t even notice anymore.”

Greg blinked.

The chef brought out John’s meal, setting it down before him.

Mycroft’s text alert sounded, and he set down his paper in order to take his mobile out of his vest pocket.

As John began to nibble at his toast, Mycroft frowned at his phone.

Sherlock watched him closely, interested.

After a moment, Mycroft looked up from the message, and put his mobile away.

“What’s wrong?” Greg asked, knowing that it would have to be something important to make Mycroft frown so much.

Mycroft took a breath.

“I’m afraid that this is a matter that I shall need to keep to myself for the time being.” He answered, putting two fingers to his mouth thoughtfully.

Sherlock was attempting to glean any sort of knowledge from Mycroft’s behaviour, though it was in vain.

Mycroft stood up from the table.

“You’ll have to forgive me for dashing away so suddenly, however my attention is sorely needed elsewhere.” He said in a solemn tone, before leaving the room and motioning for Greg to follow him.

 

 

“I want you to stay home today.” Mycroft told Greg in a very sombre tone, as they stood in the foyer.

Now it was Greg’s turn to frown.

“Please.” Mycroft told him, almost pleadingly, his eyes looking deeply into Greg’s.

“All right, I’ll take a sick day.” Greg told him reassuringly, putting a hand on Mycroft’s arm.

Mycroft’s face relaxed a little.

Greg leaned in and kissed Mycroft’s silky lips.

“I’ll be back as soon as I can be.” Mycroft intoned softly, gripping Greg’s hand and squeezing slightly, before letting go to grab his umbrella from it’s usual place of honour, and heading out the door.  
“Until later.” Mycroft said.

He never said ‘goodbye’, not keen on the finality of the word.

“Later.” Greg replied, wondering what had produced such an effect on Mycroft.

 

 

Greg returned to the dining room, after calling the station and letting them know that he wouldn’t be in that day.

John looked sympathetically at Greg, who seemed genuinely worried.

Mycroft often kept him in the dark when it came to his work, but this was different.

He’d evidently felt that Greg’s safety was at risk, which was why he’d been asked to stay at home.

But, that could mean that Mycroft was possibly be in danger as well.

Greg sighed heavily.

“So, how long have you two been together?” John asked, trying to get Greg’s mind off of things.

Greg looked up at him, shifting his gaze from the floor.

“Nearly six months, now.” Greg answered, feeling strange discussing such a topic.

John raised his eyebrows.

“And you’ve already moved in together.” He said. “That’s moving quickly.”

John shrugged, knowing that this was merely his personal opinion, immediately thinking that he probably ought to have kept the comment to himself.

“But, I suppose sometimes that’s the best way to do things.” John gave him a small smile.

Greg smiled back.

“Yeah.” He agreed.

“And, the two of you…” Greg started. “How long have you and Sherlock been official?” 

John grinned outright, remembering those first days when everything had changed forever between him and Sherlock.

“It’ll have been five years in forty-six days’ time.” John replied happily.

Even Sherlock’s expression seemed a little lighter at this.

“Our anniversary is exactly two weeks before Sherlock’s birthday.” John added.

Greg made a mental note of this.

It might be amusing to throw Sherlock a surprise party somewhere, after calling him in for a ‘case’.

Sherlock didn’t seem especially thrilled at the mention of his birthday.

He didn’t mind celebrating it with John, because somehow, that was entirely different.

But, otherwise, he would just as soon have it pass by unrecognised.

After all, there really was nothing so notable when it came to surviving one more year of life.

Greg wondered what he’d do with the free time that he found himself with.

After thinking about this for a few minutes, he decided on working on the painting that he’d started last week.

Greg wasn’t especially gifted when it came to art, but he felt that since he enjoyed it, that he would continue to paint and sculpt.

“Well, I think that I’ll see you lads later.” He said, getting up from the table, needing to do something to keep himself occupied.

John nodded, chewing the last bite of his toast.

 

 

After breakfast, Sherlock encouraged John to take a swim with him in the pool.

As they moved about in the cool water, the sunlight dancing on the small waves, the men lounged about.

John showed off a bit for Sherlock, diving gracefully off of the tall platform that Mycroft had installed above the very deep end of the pool.

John was quite skilled when it came to water, and had actually wanted to become an Olympic swimmer when he was quite young.

While he’d not achieved that childhood goal, he still had formidable talents when it came to swimming that were immediately apparent to any observer.

As John made a final dive into the water, he swam the entire length of the pool immersed completely, coming up for air when he reached the other end where Sherlock leaned against the edge of the pool.

He gasped for breath, looking pleased with himself.

He made his way to the edge of the pool, and sat on the edge.

He leaned down, pulling Sherlock’s face to his own, and kissing him sweetly.

Sherlock opened his mouth to receive John’s slick tongue as the kiss deepened.

It was a short while before they pulled away from one another.

“Do you want to… Um...” John began somewhat breathlessly, unable to think clearly as Sherlock’s fingers began tracing along his inner thigh.

Sherlock gave him a mischievous look.

“Shag?” He finished John’s sentence, before getting out of the pool and wrapping a towel around his lower half.

“I daresay that it would do us both good, although perhaps we ought to relocate to somewhere more secluded.” Sherlock said a touch smugly.

“And yet, I wouldn’t vacillate to take you here and now.” He added bluntly.

John blushed, and stood up beside the pool.

“It really is a shame that you aren’t bolder when it comes to locale… We could have so much more fun.” Sherlock stated, as John grabbed a towel.

John could only imagine the sorts of hijinks that Sherlock would have them up to, if he’d had his way.

He recalled last summer, after he’d finally gotten Sherlock to agree to go to the amusement park with him.

They’d ridden the ferris wheel just before the park closed, and under the twinkling night sky, Sherlock had given him what was probably the best fellatio of his life.

Sherlock had offered him other such opportunities in public, though John was simply not as risqué in that regard and had turned him down for the most part.

 

 

Meanwhile, Mycroft sat in a large boardroom at a dark wooden table along with seven other people.

The text message that he’d been sent only touched the barest surface of the major issue at hand.

Six lower employees involved in his firm had turned up deceased, with the promise of more deaths to come, including higher up employees and family members.

The deaths themselves had been a shock, let alone the state in which they’d been found.

There had been a phone call to the police station, where the voice of a very young child merely kept repeating the coordinates of the crime scene.

Of course, an officer had been sent to check things out after they had worked out the location, and upon the discovery of the murdered individuals, immediately called in to the station.

Six frosty men and women, covered in a good deal of ice despite the intense heat, lay in a circle in the exact middle of the land.

From the autopsies, they had learned that the initial cause of death had been drowning, rather than something more along the lines of hypothermia.

No indication of why the act had been carried out had been given so far.

Of course, in Mycroft’s line of work, he and his colleagues did step on some toes from time to time, and it wasn’t an entirely unlikely event for them to make enemies.

And, some of those enemies would undoubtedly have a desire to retaliate to the point of murder.

Which is precisely why Mycroft intended to keep Greg under close watch until the culprit was dealt with appropriately, with the threat that had been made.

It was difficult to narrow down who the criminal might be this early on, considering the volume of people that would have had motivation to do such a thing.

The eight people around the table deliberated for hours, discussing everything from security, to any sort of intelligence that they currently had that could give them any sort of insight.

They realised that one or more people inside the firm may have been involved.

As this was a possibility, only the most highly trusted individuals had become informed of the strange deaths and called in for the meeting.

 

 

As the bedroom door shut behind them, Sherlock pinned John against it and began kissing him roughly as his hands slid down to remove John’s damp trunks, giving John’s buttocks a squeeze before taking his own swimwear off.

“I didn’t pack any lube…” John said, remembering.

Sherlock didn’t look concerned.

“I know.” Sherlock replied. “Which is why I took a small jar of cold-pressed cocoanut oil from the kitchen pantry.”

John raised his eyebrows.

“Cocoanut oil…” He repeated as though Sherlock were out of his mind.

“Trust me, John, I think you’ll like it.” Sherlock said, retrieving the jar from the single drawer in the bedside table.

“You’ve used this before?” John asked.

“Only on myself, but yes, I have.” Sherlock answered. “After researching it thoroughly, of course.”

John shrugged.

“Well, it’s worth trying.” He said, taking a step forwards.

Sherlock uncapped the jar, and dipped his fingers into the container.

He rubbed the slick oil on his palms, before going and coating John’s hard cock with the sweet smelling liquid.

The cocoanut oil had a different feel to it in comparison to the lube that they usually used, and it did smell wonderful.

Sherlock slathered his own length with the emollient, before closing the jar and setting it down on the bureau.

He leaned in, kissing and gently nibbling the skin just below John’s ear, as his fingers found their way to John’s tight hole, slowly slipping a digit inside.

John bit his lip, as Sherlock added a second finger, and began ever so softly grazing his prostate.

Sherlock’s other hand wrapped around John’s manhood, slowly stroking, twisting his wrist a little as he moved his hand.

John leaned against the door for support, as he felt his knees begin to weaken.

“I want you inside me.” John told him, the hunger in his voice delighting Sherlock.

Sherlock backed John flat against the wall, then lifted one of John’s legs so that he was half-straddling Sherlock, before John lifted his other leg so that he was fully straddling him.

Sherlock gripped John’s arse, sliding him up the wall a bit, and penetrated John.

“Oh!” John uttered, as Sherlock filled him deeply.

As Sherlock began to thrust, John bit his lip.

This was likely John’s favourite position, and it had been quite a long time since they’d employed it.

Sherlock stared passionately into John’s eyes, making him shiver.

John kissed Sherlock, who moaned, stilling his hips momentarily.

As John’s mouth moved to Sherlock’s cheek, and then to his neck and collarbone, he began to thrust once more.

He tipped his head back, when John began trailing his tongue along his damp skin.

He could feel John’s hands wandering over his torso, and just as he was getting a good rhythm going, John told him to stop.

“My skin is really rubbing against the door, and it’s starting to sting.” John told Sherlock, who carried him over to the bed.

He laid John down gently, still inside of him, and as John put a foot on Sherlock’s shoulder, they continued on.

Sherlock took his time, and it was nearly an hour of slow thrusting, languid kisses, and teasing caresses before John had Sherlock lie down and he climbed atop him.

He rode Sherlock, moving his hips swiftly, his hands on Sherlock’s chest for support.

“Uh…. Uh… Oh!... Uh!” John grunted, as his pleasure heightened.

He could hear Sherlock’s soft moans.

Sherlock began to stroke John’s cock, as he felt his orgasm approach.

As he felt the fire burn hotter, he rubbed John more enthusiastically.

John felt Sherlock’s member throb, as he came mightily.

John’s release followed directly afterwards, covering Sherlock’s palm, dripping onto that milky white skin.

Breathing heavily, John leaned onto Sherlock’s body, lying on him.

Sherlock embraced him in a tight hug, holding him as post-coital bliss set in.

Fifteen minutes later, they decided to take a shower together.

As John climbed off, he felt Sherlock’s limp penis slide out of him.

 

 

Greg stood before a massive canvas, which was beginning to depict a cheery springtime scene at a park.

He dabbed his brush against the canvas, his brows furrowed as he concentrated.

He took some steps back to look at the full picture.

As he gazed at a particular patch of aspen trees, he looked disgusted.

Those were most certainly not happy little trees.

He sighed.

How could he enjoy painting so much, but hate what resulted when he got creative?

He approached his work, and began to add some clouds to the scene.

 

 

The day went by quickly, as John and Sherlock spent some time together one-on-one, Greg laboured away on his huge painting, and Mycroft worked with a small team to begin looking into the mysterious deaths.

 

 

As the sun slipped beneath the horizon, Mycroft arrived home, exhausted.

He headed straight to bed, where Greg gave him a thorough massage to help relax him.

Greg was worried.

Mycroft had just begun to get back to his normal self and ease out of his depression, and now he had something very stressful to deal with at work that was troubling him.

Greg knew that it must have been incredibly important, or Mycroft wouldn’t be reacting like this.

He wished that Mycroft could tell him what was wrong, if nothing else, just to get it off his chest.

As Greg worked the knots out of Mycroft’s muscles, Greg could feel him relax.

Before long, Mycroft was snoring softly.

Greg smiled as he looked at Mycroft’s peaceful face.

Damn, he was beautiful when he slept.

He got up and took a blanket from the linen closet, draping it over Mycroft before turning out the lights.

Greg shed his clothes and slipped beneath the covers, closing his eyes as he let any stress and worry leave his mind.

 

The next day, John awoke to his text alert going off.

It was a message from Melissa. 

She wasn’t pregnant, and they would need to try the process again.

Of course, this didn’t exactly come as a shock.

John hadn’t expected a pregnancy to take place after only one round of AI.

It would have been nice, but he hadn’t counted on it happening at all.

He let her know that he’d gotten her message, and that when the appropriate time in her cycle approached that they would like to try again.

Which, she agreed to.

He was still tired, and Sherlock hadn’t awakened, so he went back to sleep.


	11. Chapter 11

An hour later, they got up and had breakfast at the table alone, as Greg and Mycroft had already eaten.

Greg, asked to stay on the estate by Mycroft once more, was currently lying in bed.

He didn’t feel like reading, painting or sculpting, or doing anything really.

So, he merely lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling and waiting for nothing in particular to happen.

This was something unusual for Greg, and he found the way that he was feeling an aggravating thing.

He was listless and just didn’t feel quite right.

He hated having nothing productive to do, and the lack of activity was difficult for him to manage.

He sighed, as he picked up a book from a small shelf beside the bed and began to read.

 

 

Mycroft had left before Greg had awoken, leaving him a note explaining his absence.

Two more deaths had been discovered, this time by an elderly woman walking her Pekingese in Hyde Park.

As her dog barked at a squirrel in a nearby tree, Matilda had noticed a rowboat in the middle of the water.

Her eyes were still quite sharp, and the two men sitting in the boat were not healthy looking at all.

Their skin was a waxy purple, and they looked to be coated in some sort of substance.

Suspicious, she immediately called it in to the police station on her mobile.

Matilda was a regular caller to the station, and they’d had a problem in the past with her reporting any just little thing.

Of course, they had to respond to the calls, with it being their civic duty, although she’d been warned to stop calling in unless the police were actually needed.

After hearing what it was that Matilda was reporting this time, a pair of officers were sent down to investigate.

 

 

Once the officers arrived, they’d promptly had the boat brought to shore as they taped the area off.

As they took in the sight of two frozen corpses, which had obviously been sitting there for a while with the amount of melted ice in the bottom of the boat, one of the officers radioed in what they’d found.

 

 

As the forensics was being collected, a small number of journalists showed up, as well as a handful of television reporters.

The police were not pleased about the attention, and tried to have them vacate the area with some difficulty.

They had shown up quite quickly, and they had thought that it may have been Matilda herself who had called them in.

Or perhaps a passerby.

They didn’t realise that it had been the killer themselves who had in fact informed the press of the crime.

They didn’t realise that the press had received an anonymous untraceable phone call from a person stating that they’d committed the dastardly deed.

There had been a few good shots taken of the crime scene before the press had been convinced to leave.

 

 

It wasn’t long before Mycroft had become aware of these murders, and another meeting had been called.

Two more junior members had been killed, and still no evidence had been found.

During the lengthy meeting, it was brought to their attention that two more members of the firm, senior staff this time, had been found in the same manner as each of the other corpses.

This time, however, a clue had been left for them.

The icy man and woman, sat at a cheap plastic table, each held a fan of playing cards in their rigid hands.

The man’s hand consisted of a Jack of spades, the eight of hearts, and a pair of twos.

The female’s hand was a royal flush.

 

 

Things were gravely serious, and Mycroft was beginning to become concerned in regards to his own safety, despite all of the security in place.

Jack and Eliza had also used security measures, and they had turned up dead.

They were dealing with someone skilled at finding holes in their security systems, even with the advanced technology.

And, though this mystery person was working so hard to pick them off, they had still not given any sort of indication as to why, nor had any hint of a demand been made.

However, most of the men and women present at the meeting were fairly confident that the killings were committed out of revenge.

 

 

With little to stimulate Sherlock’s brain, he kept retreating into his mind, shutting his surroundings out in order to think.

John knew better than to try and keep Sherlock focused on anything, so he went to try and find Greg.

At least then, he’d have someone to speak to that would actually hear what he was saying.

He found Greg sitting in the den, looking miserable.

“What’s up?” John asked, sitting down across from him.

Greg looked up at John, who looked at him encouragingly.

“It’s just that I have nothing constructive to do, and it’s frustrating.” He answered.

John nodded.

“I see.” He said. “Maybe we could figure out a way to pass the time.”

Greg shrugged.

“Maybe.” He replied, sounding as though he didn’t believe it.

John hadn’t seen any hint of a television set anywhere in the house.

“Does Mycroft have a tv hidden away somewhere?” He asked Greg.

“Well, there’s one in the bar downstairs.” Greg told him.

John stood up.

“What’s say we head down there, then?” John asked.

Greg got to his feet, thinking that they may as well.

It had been weeks since he’d watched any telly.

Since moving in with Mycroft, he’d been watching practically nothing on the television at all.

When he was single and living on his own, whenever he was home, the tv set was on.

But, his bachelor days were over, and he no longer felt the need to fill his spare time with mindless programmes.

 

 

As John turned the set on with the small remote control, sitting on a crimson bar stool, Greg heated up some fried chicken that had been in the mini fridge.

John flicked through the channels.

“What do you like to watch?” John asked him.

Greg shrugged.

“Oh, anything really. You choose.” Greg said, not caring.

John continued to channel surf, though he stopped as a pair of naked breasts appeared on screen.

He looked over to Greg, who didn’t seem altogether impressed by them.

“Not your thing?” John asked.

Greg gave a small laugh.

“Not really, no.” He admitted.

John decided to search through the menu, muting the sound.

“Just not into porn, or…” John began curiously.

Greg took the chicken out of the microwave, setting it down in front of John at the bar.

“Porn’s all right with me, it’s just, well…” Greg trailed off, feeling self-conscious.

“The women?” John asked.

Greg nodded.

John gave him a friendly smile, trying to set him at ease.

“Well, that’s not a big deal.” John told him.

Greg seemed a touch more comfortable at this.

“And you’re what, bi?” Greg asked.

John affirmed this.

Greg opened a beer, taking a swallow of it.

“That must have been convenient when you were single.” Greg said. “Opens up more options.”

John laughed.

“Yeah, I suppose that it does.” He agreed.

And with this, they began a long conversation, ignoring the television set and really connecting with one another.

 

 

Meanwhile, Mycroft was being told by a colleague that since he was one of the two most valuable people within the highly specialised firm that he should lie low for the time being.

Of course, he wasn’t altogether pleased at this, knowing that his massive skills would come in especially useful in such a situation.

It wasn’t as though his colleagues were utter dullards, but that he wanted to be involved, and knew that he could lend much needed support.

Considering how clean the crime scenes had been and that the criminal was quite knowledgeable when it came to exceedingly advanced security systems, that the murderer was obviously highly skilled in what he or she was doing.

They would need to be at the top of their game, and Mycroft could likely prove to evenly match the crook.

But, he was an extremely important individual to a good deal of people, including the royal family and the majority of the British government, and knew that his safety was indeed at risk.

Which is why he agreed, albeit hesitantly.

He could still give advice and insight on the situation as it changed, and was expected to.

And so, as the men and the women began to get up from the table to begin fulfilling their roles in the agreed upon plan, Mycroft texted his driver to come round the front of the building to drive him home.

 

 

As Sherlock walked through the library, searching for something that he hadn’t already previously read, he saw a tiny black figure sitting on the ledge just outside the window.

He made his way over to it, peeking at the little creature who was gazing almost sadly at him, panting as the sun beat down mercilessly.

Sherlock watched the straggly black kitten for a moment, who couldn’t have been more than five weeks old.

With the terrible hotness outside, and how emaciated the animal was, Sherlock didn’t suppose that it would survive much longer left like that.

He opened the window, and popped the screen out enough to be able to reach out and grab the poor thing in one large hand.

It was very warm to the touch, and it’s eyes were dull.

The kitten lay limply in his hand as he fixed the screen and closed the window, locking it.

It would have been cruel to just allow the kitten to perish like that.

Sherlock carried the kitten to the room that he and John were using, and went into the bathroom.

He dampened a cloth with slightly cool water and wiped the kitten down, before offering the kitten a drink in a small cup.

It stubbornly refused the liquid.

Sherlock frowned.

He picked the kitten up, and went to sit down on the bed, bringing the water with him.

He stroked the kitten as he offered the water once more.

Again, the animal would not drink.

Sherlock could tell from it’s eyes that it would die soon of something wasn’t done.

Since the creature wouldn’t drink on it’s own, there was only one thing to do.

He set the kitten down on the bed, and left the room to find a syringe, closing the door behind him.

After asking James about one, the young man set about finding a small syringe for Sherlock.

It was a short while before James returned with one, having had a bit of difficulty in locating it.

Sherlock nodded his thanks, and returned to the pitiful kitten.

 

 

Greg and John were having a pretty good time downstairs, and they were each getting a little drunk.

As they swapped stories, drank beer and ate fried chicken, they realised that they had more in common than either of them had previously thought.

In fact, it seemed as though it was possible that they might even become good friends.

John laughed, as Greg told him about one time in his college years that he'd been drunk, and had gotten very upset while watching a Yogi Bear cartoon on tv.

“So, yeah, pretty much the other lads were just laughing at me the whole time, as I got angry over the other characters in the show beating the bear up.” Greg told him, shaking his head.

“Actually, it’s one of the few memories that I do have from that entire weekend.” He chuckled, wondering how he still had a functioning liver after what he'd put it through in his college years.

John leaned against the bar, taking a swig of his pint of beer.

“Well, I’ve got a much worse tale than that, my friend.” John told him, recalling a particularly awful drunken episode.

“I was twenty-two, and on vacation with my then girlfriend.” He began, crossing his arms.

“And, as we walked along the crowded beach in the late afternoon after I’d consumed far too much liquor, I got it into my head that it would be fun to strip out of all my clothes and rush into the water.”

John scratched his temple, almost visibly cringing as he remembered.

“So, I took off my clothes right there in the middle of the crowd, girlfriend at my side yelling at me to stop, and I began running to the water.” John went on.

“And, halfway through the crowd, I began vomiting on this couple’s young son. I blacked out not long afterwards, and woke up alone in the hotel room. She'd taken an early flight home, breaking things off through a letter she'd left at the front desk for me.” He finished.

Greg’s eyes were wide.

“Damn.” He swore. “That tops anything I’ve got, you poor bastard.”

 

 

With the syringe, Sherlock had been able to hydrate the kitten a fair amount.

He didn’t want to offer food so quickly to the animal, as he knew that it was likely that the food wouldn’t stay down.

He watched the kitten, as it lay in his lap, beginning to sleep.

Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, stroking the kitten’s fur absentmindedly as he began thinking about the deaths that had made it into that morning’s paper.

That a claim of responsibility of the murders had been made was mildly interesting.

The description of the corpses in particular had drawn the interest of Sherlock.

It was unlike anything he’d yet come across.

Icy men and women cropping up in the middle of a heat wave?

Now, that was intriguing.

The kitten stretched out in his lap, looking incredibly vulnerable.

Sherlock massaged it’s ear, as he continued to muse over the newspaper article.

 

 

When Mycroft arrived home, he set his briefcase down just inside the door and headed straight to the bedroom.

He changed out of his work suit, and into something slightly more casual, before going to the kitchen for a slice of cherry pie.

 

 

He’d not had a chance to read the day’s paper so far, and as he sat at the dining room table, eating the pie that he’d topped with whipped cream, he began to scan the front page.

He hadn’t been entirely surprised to see that the mysterious deaths had made it into the paper.

He read through the article, not entirely impressed with the weak writing and shady ‘facts’ that they had printed in the column.

He sighed, and continued reading.

He wondered if he had been right in agreeing to wait things out before returning to his usual routine.

It wasn’t as though he really had much choice, yet he still wasn’t thrilled about it.

After all, it wasn’t unlikely that the next attempt could be made on his own life.

At least he and Greg would have some quality time together now, which was something that they’d been lacking in the past short while, especially with Greg working so much.

It was only four in the afternoon, but it felt much later than that.

It had been a bad day, and so he allowed himself a second slice of pie before he relaxed in a long bath.

 

 

Greg was getting a bit drowsy from the alcohol, and decided to head upstairs to take a nap.

John hadn’t consumed quite so much as Greg had, and was only somewhat beyond tipsy.

He didn’t really want to be alone, so he went to find Sherlock.

John soon discovered him in their bedroom, zoned out at the wall and a kitten in his lap.

“Sherlock?” He tried.

Of course, with Sherlock so deep in thought, he didn’t stir.

The kitten, however, lifted it’s small head and peeped up at him.

“Well, hello there…” John said softly, reaching out and petting the kitten’s forehead.

It began to purr startlingly loud, a purr that would have been much more suited to a fully grown cat rather than a runty kitten.

He wondered what Sherlock was doing with it.

He sat beside Sherlock, nudging him in an attempt to rouse him from his thoughts.

After a jab in the arm, Sherlock stirred.

“Ouch.” Sherlock said with a frown, unimpressed.

John gave him a slight grin.

“What’s with the cat?” He asked.

Sherlock looked down at the animal, which seemed to have perked up a little.

“I found it lingering outside the library window, expiring from the heat.” Sherlock answered.

John picked the kitten up, holding it to his chest.

“So, you rescued the little fellow.” John said. “… Is it a fellow?”

Sherlock shrugged.

“I really don’t know, John. I’ve been respecting it’s privacy.” He replied, disinterested.

John checked the animal’s gender.

“It’s most definitely a ‘he’.” John told Sherlock, who didn’t seem to care whatsoever.

“And why does it matter what gender the beast is?” Sherlock inquired, not seeing what the point was.

John thought for a moment.

“Well, you can get the name right for one.” He said.

Sherlock snorted.

“Do you think it’ll care whether a name is chosen that corresponds to it’s gender according to society?” Sherlock asked. “I hardly think that it would.”

John raised an eyebrow, wondering where this had come from.

“And, anyway.” Sherlock began. “What’s the point in naming it if it shan’t be staying with us?”

John blinked.

“What, so you’re going to leave him at the pound?” John asked, sounding as though he didn’t like that idea one bit.

Sherlock wasn’t sure what he intended to do with the kitten, and stated so.

“Then we may as well call it something for the time being.” John told him stubbornly.

Sherlock sighed.

“Fine, what about Klaus?” He suggested off-hand.

John glanced at the kitten.

The name suited the animal somehow.

“All right then, Klaus it is.” He said decidedly, looking at Sherlock with a smile.

 

 

The rest of the day went by fairly uneventfully, and gave way to a restful night for them all.

 

 

The next day had begun normally enough, and everyone was getting along reasonably well.

 

Mycroft had not been overly happy at the discovery of the kitten, but had allowed it to stay providing that John and Sherlock took it with them when they left.

Around mid-morning, Mycroft received a text from a trusted colleague asking to come by the estate on the business at hand.

Mycroft had agreed, and before the workmate arrived, he tightened his security measures just a bit more.

He trusted Mike, however, there was only so much trust you could put in a person in Mycroft’s line of work.

Double and even triple agents did crop up from time to time in his business and it was wise to be prepared.

 

 

When Mike Kowalski showed up at the front door, James showed him into Mycroft’s study, where there were hidden camera and audio recording devices.

Mycroft sat at the oak desk, two armed security personnel flanking standing to each side of him.

“Please, sit.” Mycroft invited Mike.

Mike was sweaty and looked nervous as he set his briefcase on his lap and opened it.

He cleared his throat.

“Barbara Hymen, George Myers and Elliot Reeves were all scheduled to come in today.” He began.

“However, not one of them arrived to work, nor gave any sort of explanation for their absence. After some quick investigation, it came to light that none of them made it home last night.”

Mycroft folded his hands in his lap, listening intently.

“Nobody has seen them since they left work yesterday, and naturally, there is concern that they will turn up as the others have.” Mike finished.

Mycroft nodded silently.

Barbara, George and Elliot were three of the higher ranking officials, being stationed just below him.

“We’ve figured that they must have been collected in the car park as they went to their respective vehicles.” Mike added.

“And there has been no hint of a clue left behind, if I am correct.” Mycroft said.

Mike shook his head.

“No, there was nothing at all.” He answered.

Mycroft closed his eyes momentarily.

“And so you've come to see what sort of possible insight that I can provide you with.” Mycroft said, his mind racing with ideas.

Mike nodded.

“It was hoped that you might have some sort of idea as to what should be done.” Mike answered.

They were grasping at straws, and panic was beginning to set in at the firm.

Never before had something like this occurred, and naturally, employees were becoming quite nervous.

“Have you seen the morning paper?” Mike asked.

Mycroft hadn’t, as it hadn’t been delivered that morning, and told Mike this.

Mike opened up his briefcase and handed Mycroft his copy.

The front page splash consisted of what appeared to be a conversation between the reporter and the self-proclaimed murderer.

Much of it covered the same basic points that had already been made, though it had also included a statement of ‘Nobody is safe' from the professed criminal.

Since it had only been members of his firm, he didn’t take this to mean the general public.

Of course, since only Mycroft and the firm knew this, many people who had read the paper that morning had begun to panic.

Which is precisely what had been intended by the individual who’d given that statement to the press.

And, when the interview had spread to the local televised news, the topic of the murders had begun to spread like wildfire.

Mycroft considered all of the information available before sharing his thoughts with Mike.

 

 

“I do believe that I know of the right man to look into things.” Mycroft answered thoughtfully.

He would have preferred to conduct the investigation himself; however Sherlock would be a better fit, seeing as how he would be at considerably lesser risk of danger and could be trusted undoubtedly.

Mike blinked.

“Who would that be?” He asked curiously.

Mycroft glanced towards the door, letting Mike know that he should be leaving soon with the gesture.

“That is a detail that I shall be keeping to myself for the moment, but rest assured that I will have someone formidable on the case shortly.” Mycroft answered, standing up.

Mike got up from his chair, nodding.

“Yes, sir.” He replied, placing the papers back into the briefcase and leaving.

Mycroft took a breath in, letting it out slowly before exiting the study, dismissing the security guards for the time being.

 

 

Mycroft had James retrieve Sherlock, and they met in the den, where he told his brother everything pertinent to the threatening situation.

He gave Sherlock each photo that had been taken of the crime scenes and the victims themselves to look at.

Sherlock had been very interested when it came to the cards, knowing that there must be something significant to the sequence.

As he listened to his brother, he began trying to decipher the code that he believed to be among those playing cards.

“And there was no trace, no indication of who it could possibly be?” Sherlock asked.

Mycroft grimaced.

“None at all.” He answered a little bitterly.

Sherlock went into his thinking pose as he closed his eyes, picturing a multitude of combinations that could be the key to the cards.

Mycroft gave him a moment, waiting patiently.

Sherlock opened his eyes, searching throughout the photographs of the crime scenes.

Then suddenly, it clicked.

He sat up.

“Oh.” He said softly, as the realisation flooded through him, giving him that familiar rush.

“Queen’s Row.” He intoned quietly.

Mycroft frowned.

“What about Queen’s Row?” He asked impatiently.

Sherlock stood up.

“There’s no time.” He said. “I need transport.”

Sherlock jogged to the bedroom.

“John, we have a case.” He announced. “Get your shoes on.”

John sat up, not looking as delighted as Sherlock did.

“You are supposed to be taking it easy, not going about making deductions in the hot weather.” John pointed out.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

“Are you coming with me or not, John?” He asked, tilting his head to the side.

John sighed unhappily.

“Fine, yes, I’ll go with you.” He said.

“But, you’d better call things off if you begin to feel ill again or so help me I’ll chain you to the bed where you’ll have to rest.” John threatened.

Sherlock grinned.

“Actually, I might rather enjoy that.” He said with a wink.

 

 

As Sherlock and John walked through Queen’s Row, accompanied by one of Mycroft’s colleagues, Sherlock walked up to the door of Flint’s Hire & Supply.

He tried the doorknob, but the shop was locked.

Sherlock took a small tool from his pocket, swiftly picking the lock and heading inside.

The man accompanying them, Scott, didn’t seem to care in the least that they were breaking and entering.

As John and Scott followed Sherlock upstairs to the flat above the shoppe, they felt oddly cold.

It wasn’t the same sort of cool temperature that even the best air conditioning system could provide.

The temperature was absolutely frigid.

John shivered.

Someone had turned the building into a sort of makeshift walk-in freezer.

 

 

The flat was small and messy.

Someone had evidently been squatting there, and as Sherlock looked over the flat, John stood quietly out of the way.

One of the rooms was dramatically colder than the rest of the building, and from the room's contents it appeared that this was where the men and women had been drowned in icy water, before being left to freeze into a meat popsicle.

Scott had made some sort of lame comment at this point that had annoyed Sherlock, who had likened him to Anderson by now.

Suddenly, they heard a small noise in the shop below.

Sherlock looked at John.

“Stay here.” Sherlock told him, and rushed downstairs.

 

 

Scott, who had stayed with John, stared at him unblinkingly.

John shifted on the spot, feeling on edge.

Something wasn’t right.

Just as he turned to face Scott dead on and say something, a pale woman with long dark hair entered the room through the window.

She’d been watching them, staying just out of view on the fire escape.

The woman wore an expensive black and white suit, finishing the look with a black silk tie.

She looked startlingly like James Moriarty.

“Wh-“ John started, feeling confused.

“Shhh.” The woman said, stepping close and pressing a finger to his lips.

“Drop your trousers.” She whispered in his ear.

John didn’t move a muscle.

“I said drop them.” She said quietly, her tone deadly.

Scott gave him a menacing look.

John swallowed, and complied.

“Good.” She cooed. “Now the pants.”

John glared at them both.

What in the hell was going on?

In his confusion, he moved too slowly for her liking and she roughly shoved them down.

She held the red pants up, looking at them for a moment before picking up a hammer from the floor, along with a nail from the contents of a nearby bucket.

She told John to put his trousers back on, and Scott manhandled him out the window, down the fire escape and to the car that had John and Sherlock had ridden up in.

The lookalike nailed the pants to the wall, scurrying down to the vehicle as quickly as she could before Sherlock returned.

 

 

Sherlock distinctly heard the nail being pounded into the wall, and had rapidly made his way back upstairs to find the flat completely empty.

“John!” Sherlock called out loudly, searching for any sign of him.

He immediately noticed John’s monogrammed red pants nailed to the wall, his eyes widening at the sight.

It was obvious that they weren’t a fraudulent copy by the frayed waistband.

 

 

They were identical in every way to the ones that he’d seen John pull on that morning.

He looked out the window, noting that the car was missing.

Sherlock whipped out his cell phone, calling Mycroft and telling him exactly what had happened as he hurried down to the street.

There was a street camera that ought to have caught footage of John’s kidnapping.

With Mycroft’s affinity for cameras, and his being able to control the ones around the city quite easily, he gave the address and told him to access the material.

This was one of only a small handful of times in which he’d felt true panic, and he feared that it would interfere with his abilities to concentrate on getting John back to him.

There really was nothing else to do, but wait for the car to pick him up.

There was no point in trying to chase after the criminals then, there was no path leading to them.

He felt a sort of helplessness.

Sherlock knew that John could end up as the other stolen people had; drowned, frozen and placed somewhere public.

 

 

A car arrived ten minutes later, and he got in after verifying information with the driver.

As he sat in the back, he retreated into his mind, going over the photographs once more.

The only thing that could possibly hold any significance was the second hand of cards.

The Jack of spades, an eight, and a pair of twos…

What did it mean?

“Where are we going, sir?” The driver asked.

Sherlock shushed him, and the driver scowled and continued to let the engine idle.

He thought for a few more minutes, before deciding on their destination.

Sherlock gave the address for the main building where Mycroft often worked and where 98% of the employees that had gone missing or had turned up dead had been working.

 

 

As the car pulled up to the building, he called Mycroft so that he would be granted access.

It took a few minutes, but after everything had been verified, Sherlock had been let through.

Sherlock suspected that the cards, which did not consist of the same code, but of a more complicated variation, had meant 42-17-26-11.

And what those numbers meant, he could only guess at, but had a feeling that it was a code to a certain safety deposit box.

 

 

After some digging, he found what he was looking for.

A medium sized, heavy duty safety deposit box which was located in the founder’s personal office.

The code which Sherlock had expected to work, the one that he’d punched in, was incorrect.

He only had three tries, before it was locked down completely and would prove impossible to access.

Sherlock thought quickly, wracking his brain for another solution to the cards.

A possible solution came to him, though he had some doubts about it.

It was too simple for such a puzzle.

Yet…

Sherlock took a chance, not seeing any other way to decipher the code.

He took a breath and keyed in the numbers.

14-76-88-92

There was a click, and Sherlock opened the door.

The only thing inside the box was a simple manila file folder.

 

 

Inside the file, were ten sheets of white paper.

Printed in comic sans font are the names of the three people who had gone missing that day, along with the names of two other high ranking members of staff and a column of family members belonging to certain random members of staff.

The two women who hadn’t gone missing, were placed under the strictest protection available.

Sherlock’s mind was buzzing with fervent deliberations, as he tried to put everything together in order to paint a more complete picture.

He demanded a copy of each photo from the crime scenes and any information that the police had taken down, and sat down at the founder’s desk, perusing the file’s contents along with the other items that had been brought to him.

He spent twenty-three minutes poring through all the pertinent documents, looking for any sign as to where the latest three victims had been taken.

Sherlock was confident that where those people had been taken, that was where he would find John.


	12. Chapter 12

Upon learning of John’s abduction, Mycroft had wanted to have Sherlock return to the estate, as he was evidently now in progressive danger and didn’t want to lose another family member so soon.

Of course, he didn’t say anything of the sort, knowing full well that Sherlock wouldn’t have listened to him.

And besides, Sherlock would be one of the best people to go after the abductors.

As he sat in his study, looking over the footage from the camera at the location that Sherlock had given him, he noticed something unsettling.

This being that the driver Sherlock had mentioned had driven him in the first place and then disappeared was not the man that Mycroft had sent for the job.

Upon attempting to contact Byron, the driver that he’d arranged to drive John and Sherlock, he realised by the continuous ringing that he was quite likely either dead or kidnapped.

Mycroft followed the car through various camera feeds, the recorded images giving him a clear picture of where the car had gone.

Until the car seemed to have simply vanished, that is.

Mycroft sifted through numerous recorded images from different cameras that should have recorded the car, but he realised that the trail had simply ended.

The last place that he saw the car was along Shepard’s Bush Green, heading west.

After being roughly jostled into the vehicle, John Watson had been tightly blindfolded, which had caused so much pressure on his eyes that they had ached for some time after the covering had been removed.

The first thing that he’d seen after the dirty fabric had been untied, allowing him to blurrily view his cold surroundings, was a dimly lit room of substantial size.

He had no idea where he was, but from the lengthy drive he presumed that they were no longer in the city of London.

He blinked, vainly trying to clear his vision.

It had been the lookalike herself who had taken the blindfold off of him as he sat on a rickety wooden chair, his legs and wrists bound to the furniture.

“What have you done with Sherlock, and who the hell are you?” John asked, refusing to allow her to see any shred of fear as adrenaline pumped through his veins and his heart thumped in his chest.

If he was going to get out of this, he would need to be calm and keep his wits about him.

The female laughed a sweet, twinkling laugh that didn’t suit her in the least.

“For all intents and purposes, I am Moriarty.” She answered firmly, ignoring the first half of his question and staring unblinkingly down at him with cold dark eyes.

John maintained a blank expression.

“I am carrying on the work that he’d begun, before his life ended so abruptly.” She continued on, fiddling with the silver chain about her slender neck.

“Right, okay.” John said levelly, subtly testing the strength of the bonds tethering him to the chair. “What is it that you want?”

The copycat stared widely into his eyes, madness and brilliance shining within her own.

“It isn’t about what I want.” She told him with a shake of her head, straightening her spine.

“It’s about what James would have wanted. And one of the things that he’d wanted was to destroy the Holmes’ and everything that they hold dear to their little hearts.” She said mockingly. 

John swallowed.

“And what is it that you intend to do with me?” John asked, his voice quiet but strong. “Murder me along with the others?”

She considered this for a moment.

“I don’t suppose that I’ve quite decided what you’re fate is to be, but that certainly is an idea.” The doppelganger said musingly.

She didn’t need him alive.

Sherlock Holmes would doubtless be searching for the ex-army doctor, and soon enough he would find his way here.

John had already served his purpose to her, and so she could have her fun in disposing of him should she desire to.

However, there would be a fair amount of profit involved should she decide to sell him to one of her contacts in Malaysia to put to work in one of their factories.

John pressed his lips together, thinking about potential escape routes when and if the opportunity revealed itself and whether or not it was even possible to get out safely.

“You still haven’t told me what you’ve done with Sherlock.” John pointed out, hoping that he was still alive.

‘Moriarty’ took a few steps toward him, putting her hands on her curvy hips.

“He should be on our trail soon, I should think, thanks to a little motivation from your sudden absence.” She replied.

John was silently relieved upon learning this.

That meant that Sherlock was still safe.

For now, at least.

John shivered, his exposed skin beginning to hurt.

The abandoned warehouse building was quite cold, similar in temperature to the flat, and he was becoming quite chilled.

The female reached into John’s trouser pocket for his mobile.

She began searching through the contact list.

John frowned, watching her.

She smiled softly upon finding Sherlock’s name.

She’d had the number before this, certainly, but now she had John’s phone and could have a little fun.

She powered the phone off, and took a small multi-purpose tool from her jacket pocket.

‘Moriarty’ used the tool to ease the mobile open, revealing the components within, and carefully removed the GPS tracking chip.

She closed the phone back up, and turned it on.

Perhaps it would be amusing to toy with Sherlock Holmes, send him a little message.

Sherlock was putting every tiny scrap of information together, trying to form some sort of trail to follow, when his message alert went off.

The specific tone that indicated someone had sent a message to him from John’s mobile.

He swiftly grabbed his phone, finding the message to be a photograph.

A dark picture of John standing against a grey stone wall.

Nothing within the image gave any direct insight as to where John was being held.

Sherlock frowned, searching for anything that could be even a hint of a clue.

His eyes stared at the picture fruitlessly.

He sighed in frustration.

At least John didn’t appear to be injured, which was something.

Certainly, there was fear in his eyes, but other than that Sherlock was fairly confident that John was all right.

For now.

The fact that the abductor had chosen to contact Sherlock, rather than someone in relation to Mycroft’s work meant one of two things.

One being that whoever it was, was not happy with him sticking his nose into things and was trying to teach him some sort of lesson.

Or two, that the criminal behind the attacks and abductions had likely planned on involving Sherlock from the beginning.

Whatever the reason, he was in the thick of things now and he was determined to make the criminal regret their latest move.

Triply so, should John’s well-being become compromised at their hands.

Mycroft had developed a severe migraine, and his vision was beginning to blur from the pain despite the medication that he’d taken for it an hour previously.

He groaned, rubbing his eyes as he leaned back in the chair behind his desk.

It had been hours since he’d had any sort of break, and knew that if he didn’t take a few moments to himself, then it would be useless to continue.

Mycroft stood up, the small of his back beginning to ache from sitting down so long.

He began heading to lie down for a brief while, and as he passed through the den, Greg glanced up at him in concern.

Mycroft was pale, looked exhausted, and was walking with a hand on his back where it was paining him.

Greg stood up and followed him into the bedroom.

As Mycroft lay down on the bed, Greg offered to massage his back.

Mycroft agreed, and rolled over onto his front.

Greg sat down beside him, and began using his strong hands to loosen Mycroft’s tense muscles.

There was a soft sigh, as Mycroft began relaxing to some extent.

Greg was still in the dark for the most part, though Mycroft had told him about John and Sherlock hitting a spot of trouble in their investigation.

Greg would have liked to have been able to do something to help Sherlock find John, but knew that he would likely have just gotten in the way.

And besides, he had agreed to stay within the confines if the estate for safety’s sake.

Greg sighed.

“What is it, my dear?” Mycroft asked in a slightly muffled voice, his face mashed against the bed comfortably.

“Nothing.” Greg lied transparently, feeling grumpy.

“Should you not want to tell me something, I would much rather you state that fact rather than fib.” Mycroft told him, just a touch sharply.

Greg gave the back of Mycroft’s head a bit of a glare.

He was doing his best to keep his temper under control, despite having a difficult time adjusting to being stuck inside with very little to keep him occupied.

Today, it seemed as though any little thing annoyed him.

“Yes, Mycroft.” Greg told him almost sarcastically.

Mycroft’s body stiffened at his tone.

His patience, though fairly abundant much of the time, was wearing thin.

The situation at hand was weighing on him heavily, and the stress of working away behind his desk on a number of tasks had made him cranky.

Not wanting to fight, he merely got off of the bed and began to walk silently out of the room.

He and Greg had never before had a true heated argument and wanted to keep it that way.

“Come back.” Greg told him with a frown.

Mycroft stopped in his tracks.

He could tell that Greg was nearly as agitated as he was, and that it would likely end in a fight if he complied.

He turned around, glancing down at Greg from the doorway.

Greg was looking up at him, looking frustrated and apologetic.

Mycroft sighed, feeling tired and vaguely irritated.

Greg stood up and crossed his arms.

“Look, I’m sorry.” Greg told him, a hand on the back of his neck.

“It’s just… I’m having a rotten day, that’s all. My bad attitude isn’t directed at you.”

Mycroft crossed the room and put his arms around Greg, who put his head on a broad shoulder.

“Yes, I know.” Mycroft told him softly. “I realise how difficult being caged like this is on you, and I do apologise for it.” 

Greg took a deep breath, the feeling of being held by someone who loved him cutting through his irritability like a knife through butter.

“I don’t blame you at all, you’re trying to keep me safe.” Greg pointed out, letting go of Mycroft and sitting on the bed. “No need to be sorry.”

Mycroft sat beside him.

“Ah, but it was because of me that you were put into danger in the first place.” He countered with an air of regret.

Greg shrugged.

“You’re worth it.” He replied honestly with a grin on his face.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“Really, My.” Greg told him seriously. “You are one of the best things to happen to me, and danger or no, you are entirely worth the trouble.”

Mycroft blinked.

He knew that he meant a good deal to Greg, but every time that he heard such affirmation from him, it struck him solidly.

Greg leaned in kissing his cheek.

“And, whatever you’re going through right now, I’m here for you.” He reminded Mycroft, who gave him a small smile. “No matter what.”

Mycroft felt Greg put an arm around him, which was comforting.

“Thank-you Greg, that really does mean more than you realise.” Mycroft told him.

There had never been a single person since he’d grown up, that had made such an offer to Mycroft.

His mother had been the only one to show him real affection, and there hadn’t been all that many people who had ever been more than politely civil to him.

Mycroft was an intimidating man to most, and considering that he didn’t really allow many people into his life, his had been a rather secluded one when it really came to the heart of things.

And so, Greg’s words had meant something a touch profound to him.

Both of their bad moods had fairly dissipated.

Greg sat cross-legged behind Mycroft and again began to massage the knots of muscle.

Meanwhile, John was beginning to cough, the cold air seeping into his lungs becoming difficult to bear.

His skin was aching and he was unable to feel his toes or fingers, and he was uncomfortable from not being able to move due to still being bound to the chair.

He had been left alone, and John had attempted to struggle free to no avail.

The ropes were tied much too well, and after realising that there was no point in continuing to struggle against them, he simply gave up on the idea.

He could see nothing in the room that he would be able to use to cut himself free, either.

John sighed.

He was really in it deep now.

Perhaps this time, he wouldn’t get out of things alive.

After all, there are only so many times one can flirt with danger before things take a deadly turn.

His shivering was beginning to increase, and in these temperatures it was possible that he could end up with hypothermia.

John sharply looked to his left as he heard a shuffling sound in the distance.

He could see a long shadow appear on the dirty floor as someone stood in the light of the doorway.

Could it be Sherlock?

John watched the figure for a moment, before it went into hiding among the shadows.

He waited for something to happen, wondering who it could be and what it was that they were planning to do.

But, as the minutes passed, John began to wonder if he’d imagined it.

It wasn’t possible for Sherlock to gather any more information from the papers, the photographs or the few people that he’d spoken to that had been in the area when John had disappeared.

Sherlock was no closer to finding John than he had been five hours ago.

And, as time went on, he knew that John’s chances for survival went down.

He was angry with himself for not seeing anything that would help the situation.

He took a deep breath and concentrated, entering his mind palace, going over every little scrap of information that could prove to be even slightly worth something.

Sherlock entered the building in Queen’s Row once more, searching a second time for anything that he might have missed earlier.

He doubted very much that he had failed to find any evidence that might have been left behind by the abductor or the driver.

And, as he pored over the contents of the interior of the building, he wasn’t finding anything remotely useful.

Until he noted a scrap of yellow paper by the window.

A very small square of folded paper, nearly hidden amongst the debris on the floor just beneath the window sill.

Sherlock bent down to examine it.

He carefully unfolded the fragile paper, which had a very small amount of hastily scribbled script written upon it in small lettering.

‘Ashby-de-la-Zouch’

He could tell from the scent of the paper that it hadn’t been sitting there on the floor for all that long, it smelled too strongly of tobacco for that.

Which could only mean that it would have been the driver or the abductor who had dropped it, although whether it had been dropped by mistake or left there as a false clue for him to find was yet to be seen.

Sherlock pressed his lips together.

The location written on this paper were all he really had to go on at this point.

He texted Mycroft, requesting another car that would take him to his destination.

If it was another imposter behind the wheel, all the better.

Sherlock would be able to find John even easier then.

Of course, Mycroft had sent a car promptly, sending his most trusted driver with the car, one that knew how to effectively use a gun and was instructed to carry one on this trip.

Annie, who had been watching Maury on the telly, was a little disappointed in having to leave only ten minutes in.

She got dressed in her uniform and headed to one of the cars.

Annie started the car, plugged her iPod in and cranked up the volume, beginning to sing along to ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’.

As she drove past the gates, she nodded to the guard, who smiled back at her.

Considering that Sherlock seemed to have a lead, and that his colleagues were still working fervently on trying to find the person or people responsible for the murders, Mycroft really had nothing more that he could do in that regard.

He’d already pored over the information that was available, and nothing much had come of that.

Frustration was etched into Mycroft’s face as he sat on the side of the bed, and Greg wanted very much to be able to distract him long enough so that he could truly de-stress.

But, things just didn’t work that way with Mycroft.

He was not an easy man to divert, and tonight, Greg simply couldn’t sway his attention long enough to have him relax.

“Come on, love.” Greg encouraged. “You haven’t eaten since breakfast, and it’s past dinner time. Let’s get you something to eat.”

Mycroft didn’t budge.

Greg frowned.

“Please, Mycroft.” He intoned mildly, rubbing Mycroft’s arm.

Greg waited patiently for a response.

Mycroft hesitantly agreed.

He was not in a good mood, and would have preferred to have a glass of wine and just go to bed alone.

He craved utter seclusion in this moment, to allow his thoughts to stir in his brain as they would and allow them to reign over as he lay in the darkness and silence, the contemplations eating away at him as they so often did.

Greg had Mycroft sit down, as he went into the kitchen and made a sandwich for each of them, pouring a glass of 2% milk for each of them, then setting the meals on a tray and bringing them into the dining room.

He set the small plate and glass of milk before Mycroft, before sitting down to his own food.

Mycroft regarded the sandwich indifferently, as he picked up a half and began to eat, still thinking deeply.

“I know that whatever’s going on is very important, Mycroft.” Greg started carefully.

“But, I’d really like to see you take a small break from it tomorrow morning and just let yourself take a breather.” Greg raised his eyebrows slightly in concern.

Mycroft looked up at him, noting the worry on his face.

“It would seem as though there is nothing more for me to do at the moment.” Mycroft told him, stifling a yawn.

“Although, I do need a break, Greg. I need some time to spend in solitude.” He finished, wanting Greg to understand.

Greg thought that this was fair enough. 

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” Greg replied kindly. “How long do you think you’ll need?” He asked curiously.

Mycroft considered this.

“The whole of tomorrow and perhaps the next day.” Mycroft answered.

Greg nodded.

“Right, then.” He stated. “You are okay, though?”

Mycroft’s expression became less sombre.

“I shall be, my dear.” He replied softly, taking a bite of his sandwich.

Greg bit his lip.

“And there’s nothing I can do, other than give you your space?” He asked, feeling useless.

“I’m afraid so.” Mycroft returned. “I merely require a bit of time to myself.”

Greg finished his sandwich, as Mycroft pushed his plate way, half of his meal left uneaten.

He could tell that Greg wasn’t pleased at this.

“I’m sorry, Greg, I simply cannot eat right now.” Mycroft told him, not meaning to offend.

“At least you had something, even if it wasn’t much.” Greg said, giving a resigned shrug.

Mycroft yawned.

It was only slightly past seven o’clock, but the day had felt so much longer than that to Mycroft.

“I do believe that it’s time for me to retire for the evening.” He said, getting up from the table.

Greg agreed, though he wasn’t especially tired.

If he was going to have to leave Mycroft alone for the next two days, he would rather go to bed a little early to spend some time with Mycroft rather than return to the painting that he’d been working on earlier that day.

And so, they went to bed early, Mycroft easily falling into sleep as Greg drifted into a fantasy world while he waited for sleep to overtake him.

Sherlock was on his way to Ashby-de-la-Zouch, feeling impatient as the car made its way down the road.

“Can’t you drive any faster?” Sherlock asked touchily.

Annie was already speeding, as per his request.

“I really wouldn’t feel comfortable with that, Sir.” She answered honestly. “I’m not entirely certain that I would be able to drive confidently and safely at such a speed.”

Sherlock groaned.

“Fine.” He said. “In that case, perhaps I should take the wheel.”

Annie, while enjoying being the driver of a car, equally disliked being a passenger.

She much preferred being in control, and it made her uneasy having someone else behind the wheel of a vehicle that she was riding in.

However, she was driving the car as an employee, and had been instructed to comply with her boss’ younger brother on this trip.

“Yes, Sir.” She replied, and pulled over to the shoulder of the road.

Sherlock and Annie switched spots, and he began to drive.

As the vehicle picked up speed, barreling down the road as fast as conditions would allow.

Annie was gripping the armrest tightly, nearly afraid to look.

“Anxiety issues stemming from a vehicular accident when you were a young child.” Sherlock remarked, noting her body language.

Annie blinked, preferring to think about anything else.

“Perhaps.” She answered.

Sherlock squinted his eyes slightly.

“No, I doubt that there’s any ‘perhaps’ about it.” He replied, swerving to avoid a deep pothole.

Annie cringed visibly at the sudden movement, closing her eyes slightly.

“Fine, there was a bad accident when I was a kid, all right?” She snapped, not liking him at all for bringing it up.

Annie knew that Mycroft’s younger brother was like himself, in that he could deduce an infinite amount of details from even a small, seemingly insignificant item.

Sherlock gave a small nod, and was quiet.

Even at the speed that he was driving, it would still take at least an hour and a half to get to Ashby-de-la-Zouch.

It was already nearing eight o’clock, and the sky was beginning to darken.

Sherlock frowned, reflecting deeply.

Once he got there, it was his best guess to search the nearby land for a large apparently disused building.

A warehouse, perhaps.

While the flat above Flint Hire & Supply had been cold, it was certainly not the place that had been where the murders had been committed.

That scene had been left behind to distract anyone who was searching for the slaughterer.

“LOOK OUT!” Annie screamed, as a cow wandered into the road, blocking their path completely.

Sherlock applied the brakes calmly, stopping in time.

The cow didn’t seem to care at all, and merely gazed at them with soft brown eyes.

Sherlock blasted the horn, which was a futile effort.

Annie got out of the car, and slowly walked over to it, patting it behind the ears as Sherlock watched from behind the wheel.

She spoke gently to it, and with a few prods, she was able to encourage it off of the road.

Annie got back in the car with a smug grin on her face.

“Yes, thank you.” Sherlock told her, as she buckled her seat belt and he put his foot down on the gas pedal.

John was beginning to feel drowsy, and was shivering violently.

He supposed that this was it.

This was where his story ended, and not even Sherlock could save him.

As his eyes closed, and he blacked out, John was dragged into a warm room.

John came to a short while later, noticing a young man sitting on a decrepit looking sofa.

The man, with blue eyes, short blonde hair, and pale skin had an innocent air about him.

John coughed, feeling terrible.

His body ached both from the cold and sitting tied to the chair for so long.

The young man smiled at him strangely.

“Hello, John.” He said in a relatively friendly tone.

It wasn’t all that surprising that this man knew his name, considering.

“Hello…” John replied somewhat warily.

The innocuous looking man laughed.

“There’s no need to be so suspicious, I’m not going to hurt you.” He said.

‘Yet.’ The man thought to himself, smiling warmly at John.

“And who are you, then?” John asked, supposing that he would just be told a lie, but inquiring anyway.

“Arthur C. Doyle.” The man replied, reaching out a hand.

“Oh, right, sorry.” Arthur said, glancing down at John’s bound hands. “Force of habit.”

John wasn’t amused.

“I would untie you, but that really wouldn’t be in my best interest.” Arthur told him almost apologetically, then was silent.

The man seemed to be waiting for something, or someone.

John felt atrocious.

His stomach hurt from being empty, his skin had a burning sensation from frostbite, and the stress had given him a terrible headache.

“What’s going to happen, now?” John inquired, hoping for some sort of insight.

If they weren’t going to kill him just yet, he wondered what it was that they might have planned.

Arthur shrugged.

“I really couldn’t say.” He answered, crossing his legs.

This man didn’t seem threatening in the very least, and John wondered what it was that he was doing here.

A thought popped into his head.

It wasn’t all that unthinkable that he’d been brought to the same place where the taken employees had been stashed.

“Are you…” John began. “That is to say, you’re not one of the people who were abducted, are you?”

Arthur shook his head.

“No, John, I’m not.” He responded softly. “Nor am I working with or for anyone that you’ve met here.”

John’s brows knit together in confusion.

“But then, what are you doing here?” He asked.

Arthur smiled.

“Oh, you’ll find that out soon enough.” He told John mysteriously.

Was he here to try and stop this ‘Moriarty’ woman?

Some sort of revenge seeker?

Someone that she’d crossed in the past, and had some sort of feud with?

John felt it was better not to ask any more questions.

Annie had been holding tightly onto her armrest, her knuckles white, all of her muscles tensed with stress.

She was regretting allowing Sherlock to take over driving; however she had a distinct feeling that she wouldn’t have had much of a choice should she have refused.

Much of the time in the car had been spent in uncomfortable silence.

Sherlock had a very concentrated look on his face, and he didn’t seem to care that she was not content in the least.

“Could you please slow down, just a bit?” Annie pleaded.

Sherlock didn’t look away from the road to answer her.

“No.” He answered simply.

Annie closed her eyes momentarily.

This was near torture for her, and she was beginning to feel ill.

“Press the inner area of your wrists together, that may help to quell your nausea.” Sherlock told her.

“There are a couple of mints in my outer jacket pocket nearest to you, which may counteract the symptom as well.” He went on. “Help yourself.”

Annie did as she’d been encouraged, and it did seem to help.

“Thanks.” She said, a little surprised that the simple act was helping to ease her upset stomach.

“You’re welcome.” Sherlock replied, slowing his speed as he came up to an area where children were playing near the road.

It wouldn’t be long before they reached Ashby-de-la-Zouch, and Sherlock realised that because of Annie, he now had one more person to watch over.

He sighed.

Perhaps he ought to drop her off in one of the neighbouring centres. Although, that would be out of his way and he didn’t really have the time to spare.

Sherlock quickly glanced over to her with an annoyed expression on his face.

“What?” Annie asked, feeling a touch offended.

Sherlock told her to never mind, though she didn’t plan on letting it go that easily.

“Look, despite my anxiety on the matter, I’ve gone and let you drive. Speeding the entire time, I might add, which happens to be illegal.” She mentioned in exasperation, her eyes wide.

“And, I’ve not said a word against it. And now, I somehow seem to be aggravating you, despite my trying to be accommodating.” Annie ran a hand through her soft locks.

“You could at least tell me what I’ve done that’s put such a stick up your arse.” She finished, having had enough.

She’d been feeling awful, and had still done her best to be professional.

Annie prided herself on always doing her best, but now she simply couldn’t take any more.

Her nerves were practically buzzing, as she nearly glared at her driver.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“You have done your job well, however once we enter Ashby-de-la-Zouch, which is only roughly twenty-five minutes away, you will be in danger.” He explained.

Annie didn’t bat an eyelash.

“How much danger?” She asked with a tilt of her head.

“So much that your life could hang in the balance.” Sherlock answered honestly.

There was no point in misleading the woman.

Annie nodded, absorbing this.

“And you were thinking of what, leaving me somewhere until it’s safe?” She asked.

Sherlock blinked.

“Well, I should think that was quite obvious.” He retorted a little sharply.

Annie bit her tongue to keep from shooting back a rude response.

If she hadn’t been on duty, she wouldn’t have held back.

Outside of work, she was rude, crude and much less than what many people would deem ‘ladylike’.

She was a bit of a bad ass, when it came down to things.

Unless she was travelling as a passenger in a vehicle, in which case she turned into a bundle of nerves.

“Measham is the logical choice.” He stated. 

Annie wasn’t overly fond of the notion of being left somewhere without any sort of shelter.

She wasn’t even supposed to be working that night, with it being her night off.

And now, she would be spending it waiting in some small village where the liveliest place would quite likely be the cemetery, waiting for her employer’s brother to return for her.

Unless, he managed to get himself killed somehow.

After all, if there was so much danger, there was a chance that he might not come back.

“I couldn’t just stay in the car?” Annie tried doubtfully.

“You can do what you like, providing that you stay out of the way.” He told her.

“Just bear in mind that should you decide to wait in the car or somewhere in the town, that your life will be in danger and I may not be able to assist you, should you find yourself in such a situation.” Sherlock informed her bluntly.

Annie wasn’t overly fond of this option, either.

Oh, how she wanted to be back in her bed, watching Maury and eating pie…

“Fine, drop me off in Measham, then.” She told him resignedly.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the final chapter to the tale. I do hope that everyone is satisfied with the ending, and that you've enjoyed the story. (I think that I might need to rework the last tiny bit, and probably will sooner or later.)
> 
> To those of you who've actually read this thing from beginning to end, I just want to say ~*~THANK YOU~*~ because you are magnificently fantastic. I mean, if you've stuck through thirteen long chapters of my writing...
> 
> So, yeah, it's been fun and I've been thinking that I might even write a sequel sometime.

The man who had driven John and Sherlock to Queen’s Row ambled in heavily, nodding to Arthur.

It was immediately apparent that the two men knew each other.

“It’s all good.” He told Arthur, who nodded.

“Thank you, Ronald.” He said, as the man turned and left the room.

John stared at the floor, hating the wait for something, anything to happen.

There was bound to be some sort of action occurring soon, and it was agonising, merely sitting there and awaiting it.

It was difficult to tell what was in store for him.

He closed his eyes, thinking about Sherlock.

Sherlock, who was probably on his way there right now.

John swallowed a lump in his throat.

From what ‘Moriarty’ had said earlier, she had been luring Sherlock into some sort of trap with him as the bait.

John half-hoped that Sherlock would stay away, because he knew that despite Sherlock’s significant abilities, that there was still a chance that he could get hurt or worse.

Sherlock was only human, after all, though some people seemed to forget that fact.

Arthur cocked his head, watching him interestedly.

John pretended not to notice.

He was still thinking that there must be a way out of this, and he just wasn’t seeing it.

Sherlock didn’t want to gather any more attention than was necessary, and so he drove around Ashby-de-la-Zouch rather than through it, to get to Measham.

Annie’s stomach rumbled hungrily.

She hadn’t had dinner, and had been called out on this job when she was just about to pop a tv dinner in the microwave.

Annie really was a terrible chef, and so she rarely cooked.

Perhaps there would be some sort of diner open yet when they arrived in the village.

Annie looked over to Sherlock, noticing that he really was rather attractive.

She quickly scanned his left hand, noting the absence of a ring.

Sherlock didn’t know where she’d been looking, but knew that Annie had indeed been looking at him.

“So, are we rescuing your girlfriend or something?” Annie joked.

Sherlock was quiet.

Annie’s eyes widened.

“We are, aren’t we?” She asked incredulously.

Sherlock sighed.

“Something like that.” He answered brusquely.

Annie frowned.

All the good looking ones were attached to someone already.

A short while later, they reached Measham’s outskirts, where Sherlock stopped the car.

Annie blinked.

“You could at least drive me into the centre of town.” She told him.

Sherlock reached over and opened her door for her.

“Out.” He told her. “I’ll be back for you when I can be. Do you have a mobile?”

Annie nodded.

“Yes, of course.” She answered.

“The number.” Sherlock prompted.

Annie began firing off her phone number.

“Aren’t you going to write it down?” She asked.

Sherlock began to slowly drive away.

“I’ll text you when the time comes.” He called out the open window, before speeding away.

Annie let out a deep breath and began walking into the village.

Once Sherlock entered the town of Ashby-de-la-Zouch, he began searching for any little tip off of unusual activity.

On the other end of town, he noticed a very expensive car, a Maybach Coupe, parked outside an old warehouse.

It couldn’t have been more conspicuous than if it had been painted like a psychedelic poster from the 1970’s.

Sherlock parked the car he’d been driving behind some nearby shrubbery, turned off the engine and crept up to the warehouse.

There was most certainly someone inside.

He could see a shadow play on the wall of an upstairs room.

Sherlock tried the door, which turned out to be locked.

No surprise there.

He took out a tool and easily let himself in, being careful not to attract attention.

Sherlock ever so slowly opened the door a crack and peered in.

He didn’t see anyone, and so he stealthily entered the warehouse.

As he closed the door behind him, he noticed the chill in the air.

Sherlock made his way to the stairwell, hearing voices coming from the lit room upstairs where he’d noticed the shadow.

He couldn’t make out the words that were being said, although they became somewhat clearer as he made his way upstairs. 

There were at least three people in that room, one female and two males.

Sherlock gradually tiptoed closer to the room, until he was just outside.

He distinctly heard the name of one of the men that had been abducted and had not turned up dead.

Sherlock took out his phone, texting Mycroft as he snuck into a nearby room upon hearing footsteps nearing the door.

His brother would be able to dispatch the appropriate people for back-up, should things go awry.

And, with John involved, Sherlock was hardly going to take any more risks than was necessary.

After he was sure that it was safe, he began searching for John.

Room after room was dark and unused.

Until he came to one that was locked.

The doorknob was very, very cold and It was easy to see that someone had entered that room not so very long ago.

While the doorknob was covered in a thin layer of frost, someone had left a set of fingerprints melted into the ice perhaps ten minutes previously.

He could hear someone sobbing within.

Sherlock picked the deadbolt, and opened the door.

The person inside whimpered in fear.

“Shhh.” Sherlock hushed them softly, walking over.

A very short young man cowered as Sherlock towered over him.

In the dim light, Sherlock could see bruises and swelling on his face.

He recalled the man’s image being among the photographs that he’d seen earlier.

“Mr. Reeves, if you’ll follow me silently then I shall get you out of here.” Sherlock told him quietly.

Elliot Reeves nodded, shivering something awful as his teeth chattered noisily.

He tried to stop the chattering, but he was simply too cold.

Sherlock opened the door, guiding him through the hallway.

As they came up to the lit room, Sherlock looked back at Elliot and put a gloved finger to his lips.

Elliot nodded, and tried very hard to be as quiet as he could be.

They made it to the front door unnoticed, and Sherlock showed him to the car.

He unlocked the vehicle and had Elliot get in the back and lay down on the back seat under a blanket, out of view of anyone who might pass by.

“Stay here and don’t move.” Sherlock demanded. “No matter what you might hear, don’t budge from that spot, do you understand?”

Elliot told him in a weak voice that he understood perfectly.

Sherlock gave a nod before closing the car door and swiftly heading back to the warehouse.

Now, if he could just find John…

Mycroft had responded abruptly to the text, having still been awake and speaking with Greg.

He promptly notified some of the top agents in the field, along with MI5, and agents were being sent in.

He sent a message to Sherlock, informing him of the pending back-up heading his way.

Knowing how close Sherlock was to possibly ending this nightmare was a comfort.

Sherlock was cautiously searching through the warehouse.

He couldn’t know how much time, if any, there was left to get John to safety.

And once assistance arrived, things could fly out of control.

He needed to find John now.

Going through room after empty room was beginning to get a little frustrating.

Still, he calmly went about his way.

It was a good twenty minutes before he found a second room where someone was inside.

He listened intently at the door, hearing nothing for a minute before someone spoke.

Sherlock could make out a gentle male voice, followed by another, a very familiar one.

John.

Sherlock briefly closed his eyes in relief.

Good. Now he was getting somewhere.

Just as he was able to get a good idea of what was being said, he could hear heavy footsteps thudding on the wooden flooring as someone exited the only other occupied room upstairs.

Sherlock backed into the shadows of an open room, watching as the woman that he’d seen in the camera footage that Mycroft had sent to him entered a room on the other side of the staircase.

He heard the door open with an audible creak and saw her turn a flickering light on.

After a brief moment, she walked out of the room with an intensely displeased look on her otherwise pretty face.

She went back into the room that she’d come out of, and Sherlock could hear the sudden yelp of pain from a middle aged man as the woman physically took out her anger on him.

“Where is he?” She snarled, kicking him.

“Who?” He asked thickly.

‘Moriarty’ sneered at him. “Who the bloody hell do you think I mean? Watson.” She spat.

“Where you told me to put him.” The man replied in discomfort.

“Oh, really?” She asked him in a deadly tone, pulling him to his feet and dragging him behind her.

She opened the door to the frosty room and shoved him towards it, making him stumble.

He straightened up, and upon noticing that the room was devoid of anything at all, he turned to her with a horrified expression on his face.

He’d seen this woman kill people for less than this, and he was fully expecting her to produce a gun and shoot him on the spot.

Instead, she lividly ordered him to find John Watson.

He hurriedly removed himself from her sight, beginning to look for John in the lower half of the warehouse.

‘Moriarty’ crossed her arms, her face a plum colour as she flared her nostrils.

She had given a simple order, and had fully expected it to have been carried out to the fullest.

How difficult was it to keep an eye on a man bound tightly to a chair?

She noticed a small amount of light escaping from beneath one of the doors and walked over to it.

Upon trying the knob, she found it to be locked.

Nobody on the premises had keys for any of the locks, and as she didn’t have any way to pick it, she went to get someone who would be able to open the door.

John had heard the noises outside the room, and had a bad feeling in the pit of his stomach.

If those people didn’t know where he was, then once they got into this room things were likely going to escalate dangerously between those people and the young man in the room with John.

Not that Arthur seemed to be worried in the least.

“Are you an enemy of theirs or something?” John asked tensely, knowing just how much of a disadvantage he would be at once that door opened.

Arthur rubbed an eyebrow.

“It really depends on how one views the situation.” He answered vaguely.

John swallowed as he heard someone begin to pick the lock.

Arthur stared at the door, peacefully waiting for it to swing open.

John could hear that dreadful woman and one of her cohorts exchanging words as some sort of tool was expertly used to unlock the door.

It was only a matter of moments before the lock was breached, and the door swayed open.

As it did, the woman stepped through the doorway.

Her eyes stopped on the young man in the room, widening dramatically.

“Emily.” He greeted her, as her skin grew pale.

“Wh-… But… But, how?” She stammered, a hand on her chest.

Sherlock was watching the scene unfold from the shadows.

Arthur grinned widely.

“I know what you’ve been up to, Emily.” He said almost sweetly, folding his hands together in his lap and watching her closely with his misleadingly kind eyes. “And, I don’t like it.”

She swallowed hard, a shiver going through her body.

“I’m sorry.” She apologised. “I am so, so sorry.”

Her tone was pleading, as she practically quivered before him.

“Are you?” He asked her almost mockingly.

Emily nodded vigorously, tears beginning to form in her eyes.

“Please…” She began, her voice becoming tight and words failing her.

Arthur cocked his head.

He stood up, walking over to her snivelling form.

John watched without a sound, wondering who this man must be to reduce such a woman to this state.

He sneered at her.

“I’ll do anything…” Emily promised him, getting to her knees.

Arthur considered her for a moment.

“Get up.” He told her.

She got to her feet, her legs shaking beneath her.

He leaned in close, whispering something in her ear that made her smile despite her fear.

It seemed to John that these two had likely been quite close at some point in the past.

Arthur turned away from her, walking a few paces before slipping his hand underneath his jacket to remove a gun from a holster.

He whipped around, aiming the gun and ending her life without another word.

John gasped.

He’d had an idea of what was coming, but it had still been somewhat of a shock.

He’d seen too much bloodshed over his lifetime, and even with so much experience with it, the sight of another life ended violently still affected him.

He couldn’t help but stare as Emily’s dead body hit the floor, eyes open as though they were watching him in terror.

John felt a wave of nausea as so many memories of similar sights flooded his brain.

He closed his eyes, trying to shut them out.

It was possible that he was next, that Arthur would turn the gun on him and shoot him at any given moment.

But, when John opened his eyes, he did not find himself being threatened with the gun at all.

In fact, Arthur was merely looking down at the woman lying in a small puddle of blood.

“And to think that I almost married her.” He said with a derisive snort.

He turned his gaze onto John, who tried to stay calm.

Just as he opened his mouth, he thought that he'd heard a muffled noise from the lower level.

He put a finger to his lips, and went to the doorway, peering out, and waiting for someone to come upstairs.

Little did he realise that a number of highly specialised field agents were currently surrounding the area and effectively closing in.

Knowing that John wasn’t going anywhere, he began to descend downstairs.

Sherlock, once he felt confident that it was safe, rushed carefully in to John, who was visibly relieved to see him.

Neither of them said a word, as Sherlock was able to deftly untie the knots that held John.

Just as the last knot was untied and he was helping John to his feet, he heard footsteps.

He had John go ahead of him, into a darkened room.

They could see Arthur walk back to the room after finding nothing downstairs, looking displeased as he found the room empty.

Sherlock watched from the doorway, as John leaned against the wall, his body throbbing in pain from what it had gone through.

As a leg cramp suddenly seized John, he stumbled.

Arthur immediately knew which room the noise had come from and grinned.

“Stay.” Sherlock whispered softly to John, kissing his cheek, before exiting the room which Arthur was walking towards.

It was the best scenario that Sherlock could think of.

If he’d entered the room where both John and Sherlock had been hiding, then the chances of Arthur killing one or both of them went up dramatically.

“Hello, Sherlock.” He drawled. “I was wondering when you would pop up.”

Sherlock squinted slightly, trying to figure out exactly who this man was.

Arthur laughed.

“We finally officially meet…” He began with a shake of his head.

Sherlock’s mind buzzed with thought, as this man watched him in his strangely content manner.

“And you have no idea who I am, do you?” He asked in that same nonthreatening tone.

Sherlock had to admit that this stranger was correct.

“You have me at a disadvantage, I’m afraid.” Sherlock told him, thinking of a way to take the weapon from the man.

Arthur chuckled.

“I must admit, I’m a touch disappointed, Sherlock.” He admitted.

“I had expected you to have at least an inkling as to my identity.”

Sherlock was beginning to become annoyed.

Arthur laughed in an antagonising fashion.

“I’ve stumped the great Sherlock Holmes, have I?” He asked mockingly, waving his hands in the air.

He shook his head.

“If you only knew…” He said thoughtfully.

Sherlock sighed.

“Enough.” He said firmly. “Either tell me your name or end this nonsense.”

Arthur ’s smile slipped and his laugh faded.

“Oh, but I think that you’ll find you already know it.” He replied, his eyes twinkling.

“Think.” He added, crossing his arms across his chest.

Sherlock frowned.

“Will you still shake hands with me in hell, Sherlock?” He asked with a sly grin.

Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly.

“Moriarty.” He intoned softly.

“That’s right.” The man told him in a soothing sort of tone.

“I am James Moriarty.” He said, staring into Sherlock’s eyes as he said the words.

“The man that the world knew by my name was, in actuality, an actor. Richard Brook.” He continued on.

Sherlock’s breath hitched slightly in his throat.

He recalled how the man that he’d known as Moriarty had claimed repeatedly at one point that he was just an actor by the name of Richard Brook, and Sherlock hadn’t believed him for a second.

“Do you really think that I would have killed myself so easily?” Moriarty chuckled. “I wasn’t surprised to find my copycat of an ex to believe it, but you?”

“And what an interesting way to have faked your own death, by the way. Very creative.” He added honestly.

“This time, however, your death won’t be a hoax.” He said quietly. “There’s no way out now, except in a body bag.”

Sherlock swallowed.

There was a chance that he could grab the handgun if he acted now, and he took it.

He lunged forwards, quite nearly succeeding in disarming Moriarty.

Sherlock missed by a mere fraction of an inch.

He straightened up to find the gun pointed at him.

He could just see John out of the corner of his eye, watching in horror, as the gun was cocked.

Sherlock didn’t let on that he saw John, wanting to do everything he could to prevent Moriarty from discovering his location.

Just as he was about to shoot, two of the woman’s cronies lumbered into the room, weapons aimed at him.

“Who the fuck are you assholes?” One of them bellowed crudely.

Moriarty lowered the gun, turning around to look at them with an innocent look upon his face.

Without a word, he raised the gun and shot each of them once, fatally wounding them.

While one of them died instantly, the other was not so lucky.

While he was dead within two minutes, it must have seemed like an agonising eternity.

The bullet had passed through his throat, leaving a substantial wound.

Moriarty watched as the life slowly slipped from the man’s body, taking an obscene pleasure in it.

As he turned his eyes back to Sherlock, he took aim once more.

But, just as his finger was about to pull the trigger, he was shot through the head from behind by an MI5 agent.

Sherlock let out a breath of relief.

He hadn’t seen the agent, and had fully expected to have been killed at the hand of the real James Moriarty.

As the female agent stepped out of the shadows, more followed behind and began searching through each of the rooms.

“Are you all right, sir?” She asked, giving him a once over for any injuries.

“Yes, I’m fine.” He managed.

John came out of the room, and immediately weapons were pointed in his direction.

Sherlock raised a hand.

“He’s with me!” Sherlock called out loudly for all of them to hear.

The agents stopped focusing their attention on John and returned to searching the building.

It wasn’t long before the two other missing employees were found.

Unfortunately, they had been found too late and were already deceased.

Sherlock had told them of Elliot Reeves being located in the car behind the bushes, and about Annie being in Measham, and they’d both been retrieved straightaway.

It was a while before they had been cleared to leave, going over their stories before being driven home.

John was utterly exhausted and had fallen asleep against Sherlock as they rode in the backseat.

Sherlock had been certain for a few moments back in the warehouse that they weren’t going to make it, that it was all over.

He put his arm around John possessively, feeling so relieved to have him back safely.

Nearly a year later, Sherlock and John sat on the sofa, watching one of John’s favourite films.

Klaus, now a fully grown and rather rotund cat, lay on the back of the sofa, fast asleep.

The sun streamed through the window, and birds sang outside as the new leaves began to slowly emerge from their buds.

Sherlock smiled softly, as John laughed heartily at a particularly funny line.

After the film ended, John stood up and went to make some tea.

Sherlock stretched out on the couch, and waited for John to return.

As he waited, his text alert went off.

It was Mycroft.

Sherlock read the message that indicated Mycroft wanted to come over, bringing Greg with him.

He stood up and quietly walked into the kitchen where John had just put the kettle on to boil.

“Would you mind having company over?” He asked, half-hoping that John would say that he did.

“Not really.” John replied. “Who’s coming over?” He asked curiously.

Sherlock began sending a reply.

“My brother and Greg.” He answered.

The Holmes brothers, while still not overly close, had actually found their brotherly bond somewhat strengthened since their mother had passed away and were beginning to have regular visits once a week or so.

John smiled.

“That’ll be nice, I’ve been wanting to show Greg our new car.” John told him.

He and Greg had become close pals over time, which had been good for both of them.

A few moments later, Mycroft let Sherlock know that they were on their way.

“We’ve got some time before they arrive…” Sherlock began with a waggle of his eyebrows.

John bit his lip, leaning in for a kiss.

Tongues danced, teeth clashed, and hands caressed fervently as the kiss deepened.

Sherlock could feel John’s erection through his trousers, pressing against his leg.

He began kissing John’s neck, beginning just below his ear.

John leaned his head back, as the soft kisses trailed lower.

Sherlock divested him of his shirt, his mouth taking in a sensitive nipple.

Sherlock’s hands ran along John’s back, coming to rest on his hips as Sherlock mouthed the stiff member through the white pants that John was wearing.

John groaned.

Sherlock nipped at him through the cotton fabric, cupping John’s arse with his hands, not letting him move as he teased John playfully.

He stood back up to kiss John again.

Sherlock noticed how flushed John’s skin was with passion, how needy the look on his face was.

He never tired of it.

“You really are perfect.” Sherlock breathed before dipping in for another kiss.

John would have said something, and wanted to, but Sherlock kissed the words from him, leaving him unable to think clearly if at all.

Sherlock slipped John’s pants off, before taking his own shirt off, and taking hold of John’s hard cock.

He continued to kiss John slowly and sweetly, as he moved his hand gently up and down along John’s length.

John began to moan into Sherlock’s shoulder as he leaned against the wall.

John reached down and into Sherlock’s pants, finding what he was looking for with great ease, and began using the same pace on him.

Sherlock closed his eyes, focusing on the feeling.

This was good.

Really good. But, he needed more.

“Bedroom.” Sherlock growled huskily, as he grabbed John’s hand and brought him to the room.

Sherlock lay on the bed, and John grabbed the lube, straddling Sherlock’s hips as he slicked them each up.

John trailed his fingers all over Sherlock’s body, letting just the fingernails graze his skin tantalisingly.

Sherlock’s brows began to knit together as he craved more.

John positioned himself over Sherlock’s erect prick, then kissed Sherlock, sliding his tongue Sherlock's mouth as he lowered his hips.

Sherlock kissed him back fervently, as John began to move.

Just as John had set the pace, Sherlock decided to break the kiss and roll them over so that it was now John that was lying flat on his back.

Sherlock gave him a wicked little grin, and John laughed slightly at his impetuousness.

He began thrusting, his hands on John’s hips, instantly causing John's laughter to falter.

John made soft little sounds as Sherlock moved within him, taking his time.

After a while, they changed positions, laying on their sides and Sherlock taking him from behind.

Sherlock reached around, toying with John’s cock as he plunged into him vigorously.

John was beginning to moan loudly, as Sherlock hastened his pace further.

“Mmm, ah! Oh, fuck. Oh, g- FUUUUCK!” John cried loudly, his body beginning to spasm in pleasure.

Sherlock slowed his pace just a touch, continuing to stroke John in time.

He could feel himself begin to reach that edge, feel that overwhelming rippling sensation take hold as he felt the sticky wetness shoot from John's cock as it twitched, oozing all over his hand.

He savoured it, as it slowly washed over him, moving languidly to make it last.

When it was over, he held John tightly, kissing his neck and cheek.

“I love you, John.” Sherlock murmered against his damp skin.

“Oh, fuck, Sherlock, I love you too.” John whispered, leaning his head back for a kiss on his lips.

Greg and Mycroft arrived at 221 B Baker Street forty-five minutes later, after John and Sherlock had cleaned up and gotten dressed.

As Greg and Mycroft sat in the den, John brought in tea and biscuits.

“So, where is she?” Mycroft asked. “Where’s my darling little niece?”

John smiled. “Mrs. Hudson is taking care of her for the afternoon, to give us a bit of a break.” He replied.

Mycroft frowned, looking a bit disappointed.

He had a real soft spot for Hamish, which had been apparent from the first time that he’d laid eyes on her.

“Ah, well.” Mycroft said. “Perhaps we can see her next time.”

John smiled.

“Or I could go get her. She is just downstairs, after all.” He replied.

Mycroft gave a slight smile at this.

“Would you?” He asked.

John nodded.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He said.

Greg put an arm around Mycroft and crossed his legs.

Sherlock took a sip of his tea.

Mycroft cleared his throat.

“Sherlock, as you know, Greg and I are to be married in two weeks’ time.” He began thoughtfully.

“I was thinking that should you agree, you would be my best man.”

Sherlock considered this for a moment.

“Certainly.” Sherlock replied, thinking how he had previously thought that Mycroft would never marry.

It just didn’t seem like the sort of thing that Mycroft would go in for.

Mycroft nodded.

“Good. Then it’s settled.” He said contentedly.

With that little detail taken care of, all of the wedding plans were in perfect order.

John returned, holding Hamish in a light purple blanket, snuggled close to his chest.

She was only three and a half weeks old.

Hamish had beautiful brown eyes, and soft blonde curls. She was quite a striking infant, and a couple of people had even remarked that she should be on advertisements she was so cute.

Mycroft held out his hands to receive the infant, and John carefully passed her over.

Mycroft smiled down at her, as she looked up at him with wide eyes.

As he held out a finger for her to hold, she latched onto it with a chubby little hand, making him smile even wider.

Greg watched contentedly as Mycroft held Hamish.

Neither John nor Sherlock had ever seen Mycroft so happy, and while it was a strange sight, it was quite nice to see.

Of course, neither of them mentioned it, as Mycroft liked to act as though the sentimental moments had never happened.

“So, two weeks… Nervous at all, Greg?” John asked him with a smile.

Greg shook his head.

“No, not really.” He replied. “Looking forward to it, to be honest.”

John wasn’t sure if he’d be so calm in Greg’s place.

Though they’d been together for a number of years, it seemed that marriages just didn’t last in his family.

Nearly all of the relationships had been fine to begin with, and then they got married and things fell to pieces.

Like a curse.

Not that John believed in such a thing, but still.

It was enough to put him off the idea.

“Well, that’s good.” He told Greg.

Hamish began to cry, and though Mycroft tried, he couldn’t soothe her.

Sherlock got up and held her against his chest, leaving the room.

He brought her into the nursery that he and John had decorated themselves, with lots of neutral pastel colours and soft cuddly toys placed about the room.

He gently swayed, soothing her with the motion, as he sang to her, soft and low.

“Golden slumber kiss your eyes,

Smiles await you when you rise.

Sleep,

pretty baby,

Do not cry,

And I'll sing you a lullaby.

Care you know not,

Therefore sleep,

While I o'er you watch do keep.

Sleep,

pretty darling,

Do not cry,

And I will sing a lullaby.”

As he sang in his soothing voice, Hamish began to sleep.

He knew that if he tried to lay her down in her crib, then she would simply fuss.

So, Sherlock sat down in the rocking chair, humming quietly and holding her as she went to sleep in his arms.

Little did Sherlock realise, that Greg, Mycroft, and John had heard the lullaby quite clearly.

John was smiling happily to himself, feeling more in love with Sherlock than ever.

Greg had commented on Sherlock’s singing voice, making a rather complimentary remark.

Mycroft had merely listened.

As they couldn’t really talk or do much of anything with the baby asleep, Mycroft and Greg decided that they really ought to leave.

They said goodbye and left, thanking John for the tea and biscuits.

John wandered to the nursery to find Sherlock with his eyes closed, falling asleep in the rocking chair, holding Hamish quite securely in his arms.

Neither of them had gotten much sleep last night, with Hamish waking them up countless times.

John went and got the camera, taking a photograph to preserve the precious moment.

It had been an emotional rollercoaster ride, trying to conceive Hamish and then waiting throughout the difficult pregnancy.

The doctors hadn’t even been entirely certain that their baby was going to survive.

She had been born premature, and with the cord wrapped tightly around her neck.

She’d had difficulty breathing on her own, and had needed to be put on a ventilator for the first few days of her life.

But, she survived and while she was still just a little weaker than most babies her age, she was doing well.

There was still the odd moment that John couldn’t believe that they finally had a baby, that what they had hoped and dreamed about had become a reality for them.

Neither of them knew who was Hamish’s genetic father, nor did they plan to find out.

It simply did not matter to them.

What mattered is that they were a family, and that was that.

Two weeks later, Greg and Mycroft were married in a lovely ceremony at the Holy Innocent’s church, after which they departed on a month long honeymoon in Italy.

Afterwards, Greg and Mycroft decided that they fancied another one, and so they headed to Greece for a second honeymoon.


End file.
